


When this bad old world has crumbled I'll be standing at your side.

by thecrackshiplollipop



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-11-29 21:01:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/691397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecrackshiplollipop/pseuds/thecrackshiplollipop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three stupid teenagers raising a baby in New York. What could go wrong? </p><p>**I apologise in advance for how much of a disjointed, emotional roller coaster this is going to be**</p><p>I don't own these characters or whatever, property of Fox. Blah blah.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You’ll have the best, I promise you that.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baby couture is all the rage.

“This is going to be the best dressed infant in.the.world.” Kurt sighs and plops a white Chanel bag on the coffee table. He laughs and waves his hands at the look on Santana’s face. “No no no. It’s not Chanel. It was the only bag Isabelle had sitting around.”

“…Vogue has baby clothes samples?” Santana blinks and leans towards the bag after a shocked beat.

“Duh. They did a photo shoot with some babies as like, accessories, and the leftovers have just been ageing in the samples closet for a few months.”

”You barely even work there any more.”

“I’m still one of Isabelle’s main gays.” Kurt rolls his eyes and starts pulling tiny sweaters and shoes out of the bag. It’s all from some androgynous Scandinavian line, earth tones and corduroy interspersed with deep purples and marigolds in flannel and cotton. A year behind in fashion terms by the time the kid makes its grand debut, but even the most connected 19 year old fashionista has his limits.

Santana thinks it looks like a lesbian barfed in the bag, but keeps her mouth shut because Rachel staggers out of the bathroom with a sour expression on her face. Kurt moves towards her but Santana is quicker and fetches a glass of water from the kitchen.

“Here. Do you want some tea?”

“Yeah.” Rachel says with a frown and moves over to the couch were Kurt is silently fishing through the bag.

“Decaf,” he says as an after thought, and returns to sorting.

“I know,” Santana hisses and bangs the tea kettle for emphasis.

“Throwing up is terrible for my vocal cords. How am I supposed to continue my education if this… this…”

“Blessing?” Kurt offers, staring at a tiny leather boat shoe like he’s found Jesus.

“Life ruining uterus dweller?” Santana says over the running tap. Her tone is light, but Rachel shoots her an annoyed look until Santana shrugs in apology.

“Baby.” She says finally, hand flitting over her stomach, because she is the living embodiment of a pregnant woman in a movie. “If this baby keeps making me throw up.”

“I wish you would eat the ginger chews I got from Mrs Chen. She says they’re the cheaper alternative to the shit your doctor will give you.”

“My doctor won’t. And just thinking about them makes my stomach flip.”

“Maybe that’s the baby.” Kurt chuckles, but rolls his eyes when Rachel looks unamused. “I know it’s not big enough to do anything like that, god, you are such a killjoy.”

“Sorry if barely sleeping and puking all the time has soured m- What is that?” Rachel is suddenly sitting up straight and alert and staring at the little sweater in Kurt’s hands. He’d been absently sorting the items in the bag, cataloguing on autopilot so he could be “present”.

“Oh my god.”

“Santana.” Rachel’s voice goes up a notch and Santana trots across the apartment, a bag of decaf chai dangling from her fingers.

“Oh holy shit. This kid is gonna-“

“Look ah-MAZING.” Rachel snatches the tiny sweater from Kurt and holds it to her stomach. It’s a tiny dark green sweater with mirror image leaping reindeer across the chest.


	2. Baby use your head (she chose to use her heart, instead).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brody is an asshole. But we already knew that.

“Brody is a Grade A asshole.”

“Why do assholes get an A? Can’t they get, like, an F? What’s worse than that…” Brittany purses her lips in thought and tilts her head so her hair slides over her shoulder, exposing the bare skin of her neck. Santana is momentarily distracted because, whatever, her ex-girlfriend-only-best-friend is still really hot and half-naked because she went no-pants running with Sam at midnight. She’s pink from the cold and she can hear Sam fake-singing opera from the bathroom, so, there’s also that.

But, Rachel is sleeping quietly after sobbing on Santana’s lap for three hours, and there is shit to deal with.

“I dunno, Britt.” She says after she gets tired of thinking of Rachel and Brody and Brittany and Sam. She can’t even add Kurt into the equation because he’s at his boyfriend’s place and, well, it doesn’t matter because _she’s_ there and that _asshole_ Brody is going to be missing a ball or two later.

And what he fuck kind of name is Brody, anyway.

“What’d he do? I mean, I know he walks around naked and eats Kurt’s cereal without asking but…”

“Nothing,” she says with a sigh. “I just don’t like him.”

“Is it because of your crush on Rachel?”

“What?” Santana’s eyes go wide and she stuffs her hands between her thighs to keep from slamming the laptop closed. _NO WAY_.

“I dunno. Why else would you move in with her?”

“Cheap rent in New York? And Kurt lives here, Britts.”

“Yeah.” She just shrugs and picks at her cuticle.

“How’s Lord Tubbington and Trouty Mouth?”

“Sam’s good. He’s getting better grades and his dance moves are awesome since he found this Youtube channel that teaches you in slow-mo. And I’m not talking to Lord Tubbington. He knocked up Billie Zane’s cat and now she’s suing for child support.”

“Cats can’t …actually sue you, you know that.”

“Yeah, not in human court.” The ‘ _duh_ ’ is implied and Santana chuckles. She hears Sam’s voice from off the screen and cringes despite herself. Like, what, a few weeks of living in New York is not going to make her suddenly _okay_ with everything.

“Hey Santana!” His face appears over Brittany’s shoulder long enough for him to grin at her and pucker his guppy mouth before disappearing again. She laughs, because it’s just so Sam, and sighs.

“Go take a shower. We’ll talk later.”

“Okay,” Brittany frowns quickly, “you’ll tell me what’s really wrong then, right?”

“Sure.” Santana just has a tight smile to offer her before they sign off. _Crap_. She should’ve known going to Brittany to vent ambiguously was a bad idea, she’s sneakily perceptive. But, that’s over, and she feels marginally better. Rachel is hopefully still passed out on the couch and the fire escape is starting to get uncomfortably cold instead of just Bohemian-ly chilly.

Weather can’t even BE Bohemian but she’s trying so hard to justify every stupid hipster-y inclination by _RENT_ terms and- “Shit.”

There’s crying from inside the apartment and Santana clumsily launches through the window, almost tripping over her own slippers when she gets inside. “Rachel?”

“Yeah.” She sounds miserable. She _is_ miserable, Santana reminds herself. She finds Rachel on the couch, half-covered with a blanket. She’s surrounded by damp tissues and Santana mentally wrinkles her nose at the idea of cleaning them up. It’s _so_ not her job, but Kurt would probably make a huff and flutter around cleaning up the mess because he’s Kurt and magically good at everything she’s not.

She makes a mental note to glare at him as soon as he’s home. Whenever that is.

His semi-boyfriend was having a crisis of some sort and Rachel had practically lost it when Kurt tried to stay home. So, naturally, Kurt had her walk him out and, once they got outside, griped her wrist so hard she almost yelled at him. Standing on the cold street in pyjama shorts and a sweater she was pretty sure actually belongs to Rachel, she let Kurt lecture her on taking care of Rachel. _Friends_. Ugh.

“Be understanding, Santana. Swear to god you are queen bitch or whatever you want but this crisis is bigger. This happens, so … treat it like it’s normal. At least, handle it better than when Quinn got pregnant… and don’t call her Tubbers.”

She had enough grace to look down at that, and Kurt had enough sense to leave it at that.

But then Rachel had decided to see Brody, who had been god-knows-where doing god-knows-what since that awful day. He didn’t know. And Santana had hoped he would want to be involved, because Rachel had already decided to keep it. But Rachel had been gone all of two hours before she returned, a shaking, teary-eyed mess because Brody is _that_ guy who offers to pay for the abortion a girl doesn’t want.

“Use your head,” he’d said, (she understands crying-speech all too well). Santana can think of one head that needs to be lopped off. And now Rachel's pale and sad-looking in a sweater that’s actually Santana’s because of that dickwad.

Santana's natural instinct is to be mean, but she remembers how shitty she’d made things for Quinn, and the two pregnancy scares she’d had junior year that _no one_ will ever  _ever_ know about. She cringes because she realises with such shocking clarity that Rachel deserves better, better than what they got.

It’s not the first time that she's looked at Rachel and thought 'she deserves better from me'. It's not even the second, fifth, or sixth time.  _Fuck her life._ Three years ago she would have dragged Rachel through the proverbial mud with this kind of information. But that role is long gone and has lost its appeal. Now Santana's hugging Rachel and letting her cry into her hair. And it’s okay.

It’s okay because _fuck_ Brody. They’re friends. Rachel knows how she likes her coffee, Kurt picks up her favourite cereal from the store when she runs out, and now they’re going to… raise a baby together? Yeah.

That’s _totally_ normal.


	3. These small hours still remain.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sickeningly accidental domesticity. Sometimes Santana is glad Kurt has his own personal drama to deal with.

Santana is in the apartment when it happens. Kurt is hours away in Manhattan, attending a class to make up for missing the first semester. But Santana’s there with Rachel. And it’s something she clings to for years to come.

Rachel is stretched out on the couch, her head on Santana’s lap because neither of them refuse to sit in the more uncomfortable armchairs. Plus, Rachel  _is_ pregnant. Sixteen weeks. And even though Santana’s pretty sure sciatica doesn’t set in until later, she’s okay with letting Rachel have most of the couch. This time.

She picks the show, their usual Thursday night  _SVU_ episode. It’s a rerun from several seasons back, but Rachel hasn’t said anything except for “oh that man should go to jail!” since the episode started. So it makes Santana jump when Rachel lets out a yelp.

“Huh? What?” Santana leans forward, just a little, mindful of Rachel’s head as she props herself up on her elbows.

“Oh my  _god_.” Her eyes are wide and she’s trying to form a full thought.

“Dude, Rach. Spit it out. Do I need to call Kurt? An ambulance? I can get a cab.” But Rachel just smiles and her hand lands on the gradual swell of her stomach. “Jesus. Really?” 

Apparently they don’t need to talk any more. Just, look at each other. Rachel’s face says everything. She nods and Santana doesn’t ask, she just moves her hand to Rachel’s stomach and waits patiently. 

It feels like it takes 800 years. A million. But really, it’s just the time it takes Alex Cabot to get shot and die, and Santana feels a small thump against her palm. She blinks, but before she can say anything, it happens again, and she feels faint.

“So she’s-“

“A dancer.” Rachel says with a breathless laugh and lays back down so her head is once again on Santana’s lap. It takes Santana another swift kick from the baby to shake her back to the present.

“Maybe. But with those kicks? She could be a soccer player.” Santana nods and finally slips her hand away from Rachel’s stomach, but keeps her arm nearby in case the kid decides to tap dance some more.

“That’s a cheesy dad line. Maybe she’ll be a nuclear physicist.” Rachel wrinkles her nose at the thought. 

“Whatever’s cool.” Santana nods. “At least we know she’s on schedule.”

“Hm?”

“ _Duh_. Babies start moving at sixteen weeks. Yesterday was the start of yours.” 

“Oh.” Rachel chews on her bottom lip, trying to visualise a calendar for a moment.

“Just trust me. Sixteen weeks. This kid’s an overachiever, though, it’s not always that strong this early.” Santana keeps her voice neutral, trying desperately not to give away how much research she’s been doing. “It makes sense, she’s yours.” 

“Right. Well. At least she has one of us- oh no, this is the part where they see Alex again. _Oh_. Poor Olivia.” Rachel sighs dramatically and the moment is gone. But Santana smiles a little at the fact that she had been there to share that with her. Not that she would ever mention that out loud,  _god_.


	4. Knocked your heart right out of sync.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Santana has never paid this much attention to Rachel. To anyone, really.

So Santana is still kind of a bitch, even though Rachel is like, four months pregnant and really sensitive. About everything. But Kurt is so good at running interference between the two of them that they don’t fight every day about little things. (“THAT WAS MY LAST FUDGE POP SERIOUSLY AREN’T YOU VEGAN?” “THE BABY NEEDS DAIRY APPARENTLY AND I’M CRAVING BOLOGNA SO I’M KIND OF HAVING A BREAKDOWN OKAY?” “Hey! Why don’t I run down to the store and grab some Ben and Jerry’s? Clusterfluff?” “It’s not called that any more but… yes. Please.” Rachel had begged, with this needy whine in her voice, and instead of Santana wanting to rip her throat out, she found it… nevermind.)

And apparently her hormones aren’t just making her crave meat and all of Santana’s favourite sweet treats, but she’s actually horny. A _lot_. And not that Santana is listening for it or anything, but she’s heard Rachel jerking off every night since the morning sickness went away at 12 weeks and wow. That’s a lot. Santana’s fallen asleep with her hand halfway in her pants more times than she cares to count. But it never fails that every night the soft gasping noises coming from behind Rachel’s curtains will wake her up.

  
At first she thought Rachel was crying. After all the puking stopped, she would cry at the drop of a hat. Like, when Quinn had updated her Facebook status to read “ _out for wine with the girls!_ ”, Rachel had burst into tears because she missed wine so much. But it’s this erratic gasping noise that builds, Santana can hear her panting and then moan and woah. She’s obviously trying to be quiet, because she squeaks with release (Santana’s assuming) which is really kind of hot and makes Santana’s heart race.  
  
Eventually a routine crops up, one that Santana follows on autopilot because she’s anticipating the what happens when the apartment is perfectly quiet.  
  
Kurt goes to bed with earplugs because his white noise machine broke and the sounds of the city are too much for his light REM cycle. Or whatever. He’s too cheap to replace it, so earplugs and his alarm set to vibrate. Then Santana takes a shower because battling two self-proclaimed divas for the bathroom before a long day is too much for Santana. Rachel dithers awkwardly around the living room, tidying, checking her homework, pre-preparing her morning herbal tea, until Santana heads to her room and shouts ‘goodnight’ through the curtains. (One time, Rachel had popped her head in and had been surprised by Santana, naked, and stretched out on her bed.) Rachel just shouts ‘goodnight’ back and then flicks off the lights in the living room.  
  
It never fails that the soft rustling and gasping wakes Santana up around 1AM. She always wonders, with a silent grumble, how Rachel can do it, every night. She wakes up at 6AM like nothing happened. But Santana responds the same way every time, biting her bottom lip so hard it hurts and squeezing her thighs together until they shake from the strain. She doesn’t want her heart to race, or to have her cheeks flush with heat, but it happens regardless, and she’s  _miserable_. No matter how much she anticipates it, brief flashes while they have dinner or while she’s making espresso at work, she still feels like she’s drowning for those agonizing almost thirty minutes it takes Rachel to get off.  
  
One night, after a long day of not getting another part and striking out at the bar, Santana slides her hand between her thighs and presses against herself through her pyjama shorts. She rolls her eyes shut and listens, the noises Rachel is making are better than any half-remembered fantasy of Brittany. It’s been so long that as soon as Rachel moans Santana feels herself get wet. She grits her teeth in frustration and shoves her hand into her underwear, deciding that rubbing one off through her clothes isn’t satisfying enough. Rachel’s breath hitches on a ragged inhale and Santana almost moans out loud. She passes her thumb over her clit with just enough pressure to make her hips jump and Rachel mumbles something incoherent. Rachel whimpers, “ _oh god_ ,” - Santana’s fairly positive her heart stops from the orgasm that rips through her body a moment later.   
  
The next morning Santana leaves the apartment before anyone even wakes up. She can’t face Kurt because he will read the guilt on her face like a fashion ad in Times Square and she’s pretty sure she will wither from embarrassment when she sees Rachel. So she prolongs the trauma and goes for a run before changing in the bathroom of a Starbucks and heading to one of four auditions she has lined up.  
  
The auditions go terribly because she’s too busy thinking about Rachel. And Santana realises how fucked up that is, but not until she’s left the last one almost in tears because she hadn’t even made it past the choreography instruction. It’s Thursday, so Rachel has class until three and then she has a doctor’s appointment for the…the baby. She’s busy, so she’s not dwelling on what happened when she thought everyone was asleep. But Santana can’t stop her mind from slipping off topic at every given opportunity and she almost forgets to switch trains at Grand Central, which would have sent her to Queens instead of home. Instead, she just misses her train by a minute and calls Kurt while she waits for the next one to come around.  
  
“Where the  _hell_ are you?” Kurt hisses over the line.  
  
“Jesus Hummel. I had a ton of auditions and it’s my only day off for a week. I’m coming home now. Sort of. I mean. I’m stuck at Grand Central. I uh, almost got stuck on th-”  
  
“ _Whatever_. Doesn’t matter, as long as you’re coming home. You stuck me here with her this morning, so you are coming home and I’m going out with Marla to try and score tickets to Wicked.”  
  
“That’s-”  
  
“Completely fair.”   
  
“Fine.” She huffs and hangs up before Kurt can ask her to pick up ice cream or alcohol. She’ll do it anyway, because Rachel is always incredibly stressed after doctor’s appointments, and because _she’s_ always incredibly stressed after shitty auditions. And her fake ID is like a thousand times better than the crap Kurt and Rachel have.  
  
Kurt is actually gone by the time Santana trudges up to their apartment. Rachel will probably be home later, she drags her appointments on for ages because she has pages of questions she needs answered. So, cursing Kurt’s amazing pre-planning skills, Santana puts two pints of ice cream and a box of fudge pops in the freezer and pops the cork on cheap wine to let it breathe. Then she kicks off her heels, changes into a ratty sweater and shorts, and drops onto her bed with a frustrated groan. She’s going to be stuck trying not to be awkward around Rachel until Kurt decides to come home, which probably won’t be until the morning because Marla is his boyfriend’s roommate and ugh.   
  
But then Rachel struggles with the apartment door exactly thirty minutes later and stumbles in looking like a drowned rat (which means it had just started raining). Santana tries not to laugh because Rachel looks about ready to cry. She jumps up and helps Rachel out of her jacket, mumbling a half-felt apology about ditching this morning. Then she directs Rachel to the couch where she stays, still in her shoes and clutching a plastic bag from the pharmacy, until Santana breezes over with a mug of decaf tea and bowl of dry Cinnamon Toast Crunch.  
  
“So… how’d the appointment go?”  
  
“Fine. The ultrasound was covered by my insurance. Thank god. Dr. Mueller said she’s-”  
  
“Sh-she?” Santana blinks, a weird feeling rising in her chest that she can’t quite place. It’s like when Brittany said she loved her, but bigger and scarier. Whatever it is, it allows Santana to stamp down the feelings about last night and focus on what’s happening in front of her. Her hands tremble, but she stuffs them in the pocket on the front of her hoodie and tilts forward on the balls of her feet. Dr. Mueller is a man.   
  
“Uh.” Rachel’s cheek go dark red and Santana would grin, but she feels like she’s about to shake out of her skin so- “I was going to make it a surprise. I had it planned.” She puts down the bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch with a regretful look and opens the plastic bag, now sitting at her feet. She produces a tiny pink stuffed elephant and laughs, sadly, because it’s wet despite the assumed safety of being in a plastic bag. Santana instantly realises that Rachel is a legitimately pregnant woman riding the subway around Manhattan and, she feels her stomach drop, that is _unacceptable_. But they’ll have to talk about that later.   
  
“So…” It’s all she can manage before she sits down with a thump next to Rachel, and stares at the damp toy.   
  
“Yeah.” She sighs, her hand wavering indecisively over her lap before she reaches for the cereal again.   
  
“You don’t look happy.” Santana chews on her lip and wonders if she should pat Rachel on the back. Or hug her. Or. Maybe she just needs the wet hair clinging to her jawline pushed behind her ear.  
  
“I… I think I’m relieved?” She lets out a little laugh, a little less sad, and fishes out a few pieces of cereal. Santana watches Rachel eat, trying not to be creepy about it, but then Rachel’s eyelids flutter at the cereal’s sweetness and Santana doesn’t even try to suppress a smile. Being happy that your pregnant roommate is taking a moment to take care of herself isn’t creepy, right? “Yeah,” she says after a pause to lick the cinnamon sugar from her fingers. “I’m relieved.”  
  
“Well. She?” Rachel nods at the question in Santana’s voice and Santana nods. “Great. Our apartment needs more estrogen, anyway.”  
  
“Our apartment? I thought you were going to find a new one because babies cramp your style.” A smirk picks up the corners of Rachel’s mouth just slightly and Santana rolls her eyes with a scoff. “I’m relieved, because no matter how much of a man Kurt is, a boy would…would.” Rachel’s eyes widen and she sniffs a little wetly.  
  
“Brody wouldn’t want to be in the baby’s life, no matter its sex.” Santana pats Rachel then and rubs her palm in a soothing circle once, twice, before she catches herself and lets her hand fall.   
  
“I know.” There’s a soft hiccup and then Rachel is crying, quietly, into her bowl of cereal. Santana sighs, a little indulgently, and immediately swaps out the bowl for a box of tissues.   
  
“Look, Rach. It’s been three months and-”  
  
“It’s still-” she blubbers a little but sniffs quickly, trying to regain control before she dissolves.  
  
“- _and_ I don’t expect you to get over it so fast. But _we’re_ here.” She motions to their empty apartment, wishing that she wasn’t the only one fumbling through this discussion. Rachel’s eyelids clamp shut, a few tears escape and trickle down her face streaking mascara as they go, and then she lets go a shuddery breath. It takes a moment, Santana knows this because she’s been here before (well, sort of), but Rachel manages to pick up the pieces that were falling away and put them back in place.  
  
“I’m alright. I just. I… I need to eat.” She stuffs a few more pieces of cereal in her mouth and levels a look at Santana that brooks no argument. She leaves Rachel with the TV and her crappy cereal (that’s probably full of metals and alloys and stuff that the baby shouldn’t have, but they can’t afford the expensive _Cascadian Farms_ version, and anyway it’s not half as sweet as the real deal), but continues to listen carefully, just in case Rachel needs her.  
  
It doesn’t occur to her to be furious with Rachel until it’s the middle of the night and, once again, Santana’s eyes pop open to the sound of Rachel moaning. For a brief, blinding second, Santana thinks about throwing herself out of bed and ripping Rachel’s sheets down. Kurt wouldn’t even hear the commotion because he stayed with his boyfriend (of course) and they could have a total blowout without him standing by and judging. But Rachel’s moan trails off into a whimper and then a sigh and Santana’s resolve melts. She slides her hand down between herself and the mattress and groans into her pillow at how wet she already is.  
  
It doesn’t take either of them very long, like Santana’s timing her own release against the sounds of Rachel’s. When Rachel cries out a little louder than normal, Santana presses her mouth harder into her pillow and mouths a silent ‘fuck’ against the material as her muscles spasm. She gets a charlie horse in her thigh and has to lay with a mixture of ecstasy and pain pulsing through her body while Rachel mumbles contentedly and, Santana assumes, falls asleep.  
  
She’s exhausted in the morning, because unlike Rachel, she stayed up another hour thinking about how gross she was and how gross Rachel was for assuming Santana could sleep through that. She trudges through her day, half-thinking about the baby (a girl!) and last night (mind blowing orgasm!) and how both things, all things important to her, seem to be tied to Rachel. She handles an early morning interview for a legal admin position before spending ten hours on her feet at a Starbucks near the Brooklyn bridge in Manhattan. It’s her second location in as many weeks, but apparently ‘covering shifts’ doesn’t mean staying in one location.

She gets a decaf chai latte for Rachel and a scone for Kurt and steps into the flow of 5PM traffic on the subway. 

  
Kurt isn’t home, which isn’t a surprise since he’d texted her that afternoon, but Rachel is already tucked onto the couch in her pyjamas eating a bowl of dry Froot Loops. She smiles at Santana, who blushes immediately, and turns her attention back to Jeopardy.   
  
Monday and Tuesday are Santana’s nights to make dinner, but Kurt had begged off his kitchen duties, blaming boyfriend troubles, and now she was in charge of Friday and Saturday. She always cooks something from an extensive list of pregnancy-approved foods and it usually turns out okay. So she’s starting on the wilted spinach and plum salad when Rachel taps her on the shoulder and scares the bejeezus out of her.  
  
“What?” Santana says with a thick air of agitation, dipping down the pick up the spinach that fell onto the ground.   
  
“Let me help?”  
  
“But-”  
  
“Please, I’m not convalescent. I’m only four months along. Plus, Kurt ditched you. It’s not fair.” Rachel moves to the cutting board and starts rough chopping walnuts for the dressing, silencing any argument Santana was stumbling to formulate. They chat about their days while Santana prepares the fake and real bacon, only burning one piece of the temperamental fake stuff, and they eat in front of an episode of  _SVU_.  
  
While Santana does the dishes Rachel prowls the freezer for something sweet  and lets out a little cry of delight when she finds a fresh pint of not-Clusterfluff on the top shelf. “Santana!”  
  
“What?” She smiles a little sheepishly at the soapy water.  
  
“I ate the entire pint last night. That means-”  
  
“I had an interview in Park Slope this morning and had to come back home to change. So I stopped at the store.” She shrugs, a flame of satisfaction roaring to life somewhere in her chest. And Kurt said she had no maternal instincts.  
  
“Thank you.” Rachel sighs happily. Then, she’s using Santana’s shoulder for balance and leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek, as if it’s a totally normal occurrence between them.  
  
Santana’s so stunned she lets the sponge drop from her hand, back into the sink, and doesn’t even flinch when the water splashes back onto them. “Oh!” Rachel wrinkles her nose and brushes a few suds from her pyjama top. “Sorry. I forget about your personal space thing.”  
  
“Uh. No. That was cool.” Santana’s nostrils flare and she wonders if it would offend Rachel if she just started banging her head on the counter. “I mean, it was fine. I read somewhere that pregnancy hormones make you more touchy-feely. Or something. Just. Don’t do it all the time. You can touchy-feely with Kurt.” Santana shrugs and fishes the sponge out of the water.   
  
“Hm.” Rachel just nods and steps back to retrieve a spoon from the drying rack. She shoots an apologetic look at Santana before she can get scolded and hurries back into the living room where the CW is playing a  _Friends_ rerun. Santana tries to scowl at the water and vows not to restock the Ben & Jerry’s supply for at least a week.  
  
Okay, maybe just a few days.  
  


* * *

  
Santana hits a brick wall with the masturbating-every-night thing after a few weeks. It had been one thing when Santana was just listening in frustration, because she could force herself back to sleep after the initial shock of coming out of unconsciousness. But as soon as she started responding to the noises, started touching herself in the stuffy darkness of her own room, she was stuck staying awake until she was positive Rachel was sound asleep. She would lay awake in the darkness, her pulse slowly regulating and (thankfully) taking the throb between her legs with it. She would think about Rachel who was probably nestled in her bed with that special body pillow for back support. Definitely not agonising over Santana. So, whatever, Santana did enough agonising for the two of them, and as the ache in her chest turned to an ache in her head she would roll over and fall asleep before the nausea set in.   
  
She did the same thing every night, and she felt like she was going crazy from it all, because Rachel never acted any different. Even though she had to have heard Santana, once or twice, when she would come after Rachel with a strangled moan that she would try to swallow. But Rachel always has the same look on her face in the morning, uncomfortable with her growing body but happy to see Santana. And Kurt. Santana and Kurt.  
  
She’s had it at the six month mark. Not just the masturbating thing. But the everything, thing.   
  
Rachel goes in for a check up and comes home late, taking a taxi at Santana’s insistence (and on her dime), so Santana has dinner in the stove and Kurt has begged off pregnant-lady watching again because - “Things are serious, Santana, his dad has cancer. Rachel will still be full of baby tomorrow” - and she’s not a monster. Not anymore. Reading baby books and picking out names on Sunday mornings while Rachel soaks her feet in a tub of warm water has softened Santana’s resolve in a lot of ways. A lot of ways she swore she’d never compromise on. But there she is, bagging their dirty laundry to drag downstairs tomorrow, waiting for Rachel to get home so they can eat. _Together_.  
  
Rachel is chattering a mile-a-minute as soon as she gets in the apartment. Apparently it’s her last official visit with the OB because a) she can’t afford more co-pays and b) she’s healthier than anyone Dr. Mueller has ever seen. The baby is exactly on target, she beams proudly, and fluidly follows Santana around the kitchen, pouring her a glass of red wine and getting a glass of water for herself. She follows Santana into the living room, having moved on to the upcoming hospital tour and how she doesn’t want to go alone because …because. She goes absolutely silent and Santana knows, on instinct, that she’s thinking of Brody. And Finn. Finn who unfriended her on Facebook when he saw a picture of her pregnant. Finn who is dating Ms. Pillsbury and looks happier than he’d ever been with Rachel. Finn who… who’s a bigger dick than Brody and Puckerman and every other dude who’d screwed them over.  
  
She places the plates down and turns around to take the cups away from Rachel. She’s just standing there, gripping the cups so tightly Santana briefly wonders if they’ll shatter in her tiny hands.   
  
“Rachel.”  
  
“Maybe I … I should give her up for adoption.” Rachel nods slowly and hands Santana the glasses before she drops them.  
  
“Why?” Her tone is neutral, but her heart is racing and she can feel panic rise in her chest. She’s so selfish but her first thought is _‘what about me?’_  
  
“I’m eighteen, Santana. She deserves better than this and, I don’t know. I want to act. How is that fair?”  
  
“Giving up Beth messed Quinn up. A lot.”  
  
“That was so different, Santana.” Her voice quivers and Santana realises this is a very, very important conversation. She steps closer to Rachel, takes her hands, and squeezes. What about me?  
  
“Rachel. You know that Kurt and I are here for you. She’s… Ah.” She looks up and blinks. Her reflex in these situations is to cry, but she can’t. She feels the tears dry and she inhales quickly, exhaling slowly. Rachel is studying her carefully, her face unreadable but her eyes are completely indecisive. “She’s just a baby, right? And if you can give her up, and you think it’s right for her. You… you should do what’s right.” She rambles to a conclusion, focusing half on the words and half on the pressure of her fingers against Rachel’s palms.   
  
“Right.” Rachel sounds shocked and edges closer to Santana. “But.” She blinks, once, twice, and then narrows her eyes because Santana refuses to make eye contact. “I won’t. I can’t. Not right now. I’ll think about it later.”   
  
She sags forward and puts her forehead against Santana’s shoulder. It’s that goddamn personal space thing again, but Santana knows now when Rachel needs someone, and she  _needs_ Santana right then. And Santana is willing to be needed. More than willing. So, Santana hugs Rachel, traces her fingers down her back in a whorling pattern, and tilts her cheek against Rachel’s head. Rachel smells like shampoo and stage make-up and maybe just a little like the city at night. Santana lets her eyes slide close and for a moment she imagines she’s not just the supportive roommate who is going to co-parent the kid with their other roommate. It’s nice. She can bring back up the adoption thing later.  
  
Their food gets cold, but fake chicken casserole tastes perfectly fine at room temperature. They eat in silence, primetime programming muted on the TV, and Santana watches Rachel with such intensity it’s surprising Rachel’s food doesn’t heat up just from being in the line of fire.   
  
“You can’t give her up.” Santana almost doesn’t say it. They’re washing the dishes. Well, more like Rachel is washing the dishes and making Santana hover nearby with a towel to dry the silverware. It slips out quietly, under the clang of a fork hitting the bottom of the sink.  
  
“What?” Rachel’s sloshing about in the sink stops immediately and Santana swallows hard. Maybe she should’ve left it. But it’s too late. She couldn’t stop herself at that point.  
  
“You. I know this is hard, Rachel. Hormones and fear and Brody is being an absolute ass. But. Rachel you can’t.”  
  
“I said I would think about it…” Her voice is very even, very quiet. Santana recognises the behaviour, but she feels like she’s having an awful flashback to sophomore year at McKinley. Rachel isn’t as hard as Quinn, but she hates being challenged.  
  
“I know. But. I have to tell you. I’ve thought about it. And you can’t. Or. I could ad-”  
  
“What makes you think that’s okay?” She turns to look at Santana, her eyes watery and there’s a twitch in her lip that Santana has never seen before.  
  
“Because!” She sighs in exasperation. “Like you haven’t noticed? Like… like. Kurt is always at his boyfriend’s place because _I’ve_  got it.”   
  
“Wait. What?” Rachel has completely abandoned the dishes in the sink and is wiping her hands on her pants.   
  
“Nothing. It’s. We just wanted to be there for you. But his boyfriend and. I’ve got you.” Santana clenches her jaw at the statement. That old voice, the Cheerio voice, laughs at the absurdity of the situation.  
  
“Just because you’re helping me doesn’t mean you get a say in-”  
  
“You can’t give our daughter up Rachel!” It’s not really a yell. But it’s close. As close as Santana has ever gotten to seriously yelling at Rachel in years. And then Rachel’s face is frozen and Santana’s nails are digging into the palms of her hands to keep them from shaking.  
  
“Our?” It’s all Rachel can choke out before Santana is gone, weaving out of the kitchen and then their apartment. Her footsteps disappear down the hallway and when Rachel can’t hear anything anymore she breaks down.   
  
Santana doesn’t get home until much, much later. She slides shut the apartment door just before 1AM, strips out of her clothes, and wordlessly crawls into bed. She grips her pillow, shock and anger and fear still rippling through her body, and she listens for Rachel to see if she has the gaul to-  
  
“Oh.” And then a sharp inhale.   
  
Santana is out of the bed in a flash, stumbling out of her room and barging through Rachel’s sheets like that’s not incredibly rude. Rachel is twisted under the sheets, the gradual rise of her stomach stark in the fuzzy light that never leaves the room.   
  
“Seriously? _Tonight_?”  
  
“Huh?” Rachel’s voice is thick, but tense, and Santana bounces on her toes a little in response.  
  
“You’re… ugh. You’re seriously wanking after we fought about you giving up the baby?”  
  
“Wh-  _no_.” Rachel is sitting up now, after some effort, and staring at Santana.   
  
“But-”  
  
“I’m crying, you asshole. Because of _you_.” There’s a wobble in her voice, obvious now that Santana isn’t listening for something else.  
  
“M..e?” She blinks slowly.   
  
“Like you said. We fought.” Rachel makes her voice as sarcastic as possible, which is hard when a little sad whimper chokes out in the middle of ‘fought’.   
  
“Oh.” Santana feels about two inches tall and, for some reason, her brain wanders to Brittany and her ridiculous time machine and, hell, maybe it’s notthat ridiculous.  
  
“Santana, I need-”  
  
“No.” Santana sighs and walks over to Rachel and, so gently, brushes Rachel’s bangs out of her face. “I’m sorry.” She says softly, her thumb brushing Rachel’s temple gently. “I’m really, really sorry. Okay I didn’t mean it. If you want to give her up, then you can.” It comes out rushed, but quiet, like Santana doesn’t want Rachel to hear, but she knows it must be said.  
  
“You didn’t mean it.”   
  
“I-”  
  
“You said our daughter.” Rachel looks up, blinking, maybe to hold back more tears  
  
“Oh.”   
  
“Why?”  
  
“Uhm.” Santana blinks, feeling exhausted, and stops stroking the side of Rachel’s face immediately.  
  
“That’s not just something you say to a pregnant woman. That’s not-”  
  
“I didn’t mean it like, she’s my kid. Just. It’s been a collective effort. Right? You, me, and Kurt. We’re attached. And, maybe I’ve never wanted kids, but I kind of got used to the idea of having her around. Eventually. And what would we do with all of the stuff we already have?” Santana shrugs and inhales deeply, trying to remember what that yoga instructor told her to do when she felt like she was losing control. Control of posture, sure, but maybe it would work on emotions? She’s  _trying_ to act cool.  
  
“She could be.” Rachel says it slowly, watching Santana’s face the whole time. She sees the surprise on Santana’s face, and then she smiles just a little. “If you want.”  
  
“I…” Santana licks her lips absently and shifts from one foot to the other, bouncing almost like she’s at cheerleading practice. What does that  _mean_? “Yeah. That would be …nice.” Because, even if Rachel means something completely different from what Santana is thinking, it really is nice. Better than nice. Fucking  _fantastic_ _._  
  
They study each other for a moment, Santana squinting because of the crappy light and because she refuses to wear her glasses, Rachel’s face a mixture of emotions. But, importantly, Rachel has this small smile on her face that makes Santana feel … good.  
  
“That’s good. Right? I mean. Kurt is… he’s.” Rachel bites her lip, searching for a word, but then shrugs. “You’re good with all of this.”  
  
“Not really.” Santana doesn’t laugh, but Rachel does, and Santana just huffs and rolls her eyes. “I’m really not. Kurt’s better. He got you all of those clothes for her.”  
  
“So? You picked out the crib. And, you’re good with me. So. I’m sure you’ll be good with her, too.” Rachel’s hand is resting on her stomach now and Santana thinks, maybe, she’s dreaming, because she’s sleepy and Rachel still looks so sad.   
  
“I… we should sleep, though. I mean. You should go to bed, and I’ll go to mine.” Santana waves her hand when Rachel moves to argue, “I’m trying to show you how good at this I can be.”   
  
Rachel just laughs, a little thinly and a little hoarsely, but nods after a beat and settles back in her bed.  
  
Before she gets a chance to go back to sleep, Santana realises it's the first night in 12 weeks where she hasn’t listened to Rachel get herself off. She thinks (with a smirk) maybe that’s something she and Rachel can discuss in the morning. She’s also  _really_ good with that.


	5. Life is what happens to you when you’re busy making other plans.

It’s late October and New York is a different creature for Santana. Last year around this time, she was stuck in Kentucky, where everyone either sounded like they were taking double-dose No-Doze (the cheerleaders) or like they belonged on daddy’s farm, not a college campus. (And yes, she’s fully aware that accents have nothing to do with intelligence, but whatever.  _Thanks Rachel_.) But she’s in  _New York_. The city is cooling rapidly and she unfurls her latest designer scores from the Gucci Goodwill back at Lima.

Lima, that isn’t home any more, but her home town. Kurt, who had been juggling his boyfriend’s dissolving family and Rachel’s pregnancy, hadn’t been able to go back. Santana couldn’t afford to miss work (or audition hunting). And Rachel… well… she didn’t want to deal with it any more than she already was on Facebook. Or by text.

So they’d stayed in their tiny, sweltering apartment through the worst month of the year, with Rachel’s expanding belly, and a growing collection of baby things.

And then Kurt drops out of NYADA. He tries to give them a good reason, but of all people, Santana doesn’t need to hear it. Just as long as he’s happy and following his dreams. And home to cook dinner twice a week and do the laundry on weekends.

So Kurt is working at Vogue full-time when school starts. Isabelle had always promised him a position at her side, if he ever changed his mind about the whole “acting” thing. And poor Rachel is miserably trekking from Bushwick to the NYADA campus one day a week so she can take her two required non-correspondence courses. 

But the baby thing is cool. Rachel wasn’t really kidding about the whole “your kid” thing, either. Her rationale is that since she can have it, the baby deserves two good parents and an uncle who will spoil her senseless. The roles are fairly accurate, and Kurt is happy to take a step back and spend more time with his boyfriend, and more time with work.

At seven and a half months, Santana tags along to a sonogram appointment - one of those 4D imaging things that her dads paid for - and when the radiology technician assumes they’re a very young lesbian couple, Rachel doesn’t even think to correct him. She just quietly grabs Santana’s hand and braces for the cold gel.

* * *

“This is so weird.” Kurt mumbles around a mouthful of spaghetti. It’s his night to cook, but they’re eating Mrs Porter’s famous spaghetti because, sometimes, she feeds them when she thinks Rachel isn’t gaining enough weight, or that Kurt’s cheekbones look too sharp. (She never says anything to Santana, but that’s for the best.)

“I know,” Rachel takes a bite of garlic bread. She closes her eyes, savouring the bite, and Santana tries not to laugh. 

“She’s cu- ohmygod. She smiled! She totally smiled.”

“The technician said she’s either smiling, or peeing.” Santana makes this face like it’s totally gross and unbelievable. “And I Googled. There are too many conflicting ideas.” She waves a hand, “she’s so cute.”

“She looks like a blob,” Rachel says after a pause when the baby seems to lurch on the screen. Rachel remembered that moment, and she immediately has to pee. “Ugh. Be right back. Keep watching.” 

Kurt scoots closer to the TV and sighs. “Can you believe she’s going to be here in less than two months?”

“No.” Santana says, shaking her head tightly. “I can’t even believe Rachel’s pregnant, to be honest.” 

“Yeah, well,” they hear the toilet flush and Kurt laughs. “It’ll be good when this is all over. Has she said anything about… yanno, names?”

Santana winces. That’s been a sore spot for them. With Kurt gone most of the time, Santana sits around rubbing Rachel’s feet and reading lists of names from the internet. But Rachel has been hesitant, only half-listening to the names and getting cross when Santana reminds her how soon the baby will come.

“Maybe she’s waiting ‘til she sees her,” Santana says after a second, and shrugs when Rachel comes out of the bathroom.

* * *

Almost at her eight month mark, Rachel stops showing up to school. She’s given incompletes and will end up spending another summer in New York just to catch up. But it’s fine, because she needs the rest. There’s no more talk of adoption, but she refuses to talk about names and instead falls asleep while Santana or Kurt rubs her feet.

And then, one day, while Kurt is out shopping for pre-baby necessities and Santana is sitting in her bedroom trying to decide  _which_ of her duffel bags would make the best hospital bag, there’s a knock on the door. Santana is up and halfway across the apartment before she even hears Rachel groaning out of bed. 

“Rach, stay in bed. I’ve got it.” She jerks the apartment door open and- “Brody?”

“Santana. I forgot you lived here.” He has that same shit-eating look on his face, and fakes a smile at her before sauntering in. “Is Rachel in?”

“Yes.” Rachel is in the living room now, a robe pulled around her torso like she can hide her stomach. 

“What are you doing here?” Santana spits with more venom than intended, and when Brody looks at her his eyes gleam with warning. She glares back at him and crosses her arms over her chest. “Well?”

“Can’t I see the mother of my child?” He motions at Rachel, like Santana  _didn’t know_.

“Uh, excuse y-“

“Santana, could you give us a moment? Maybe walk down to the Thai bistro and get some dinner, since I’m sure Kurt won’t want to cook tonight.”

“I-“

“Yeah, I like pad thai without the peanuts on t-“

“You’re not eating with us.” Santana glares and her mouth pinches in a tight line. Rachel looks at her pleadingly and Santana sniffs, turns on her heel, and heads out. She barely remembers to grab her purse from the hook by the door. 

She ends up pacing outside of their building for twenty minutes before stomping four blocks away for Thai food. She purposefully orders the most complicated items on the menu for herself and Kurt (Rachel can’t eat anything to exciting anymore, God forbid she goes into early labour because of too much tumeric) and sits outside in the cold early autumn air, fuming.

Brody was crawling back on his hands and knees, probably begging forgiveness and promising her and the baby the world. The ba- no,  _her_ baby.

She never wanted to hit someone so bad in all her life. So instead she orders and downs an entire taro milk bubble tea before taking the order and stomping back home.

She’s practically frothing with anger by the time she yanks open the door to her apartment and… Rachel is sitting on the couch with her feet propped up on a pillow and a tired look on her face.

“Oh.”

“Huh?” She looks up, apparently already half asleep.

“Sorry. Where’s…”

“I made him leave.”

“But why?” She twists the handles of the plastic bag and tries not to look as awkward as she feels. “Haven’t you always wanted him to… be in her life?”

“Maybe back before… everything. But. No” Rachel sighs and swings her feet around so she can stand up. It takes some effort, and Santana’s instincts kick in, so she puts down the bag of food and shuffles over to give Rachel a hand.

“So. Uh.” Santana swallows and feels her cheeks getting hot.

“I don’t need him.  _She_ doesn’t need him.” She inhales slowly through her nose and exhales through her mouth. This pregnancy yoga video that Santana had ordered off of Amazon talked about the importance of using breath control to calm negative emotions. Nobody wants to give birth to an angry baby. “So I asked him to go. And we’re going to that LGBTQ lawyer you found online and getting her to draft something so he can never do that, not to her.” 

“Right. Yeah. Okay.” Santana nods dumbly and steps aside when Rachel makes shooing motions with her hands. 

“Bathroom.” She frowns apologetically and huffs across the apartment. She’s not that big, not really, but Rachel is built like a tiny doll so her little pregnant waddle is a sight to see. Santana smiles, a small part of her heart healing in the process, and retrieves dinner from the floor.

* * *

“So she just told Brody off?”

“Yeah.” Santana shrugs and offers Kurt a glass of wine, which he takes with a grateful look.

“Yeah? Give me more details, woman.”

“Oh uh. She made me leave so…”

“How was she after?”

“Tired, and hungry. You know. The usual.” She looks exhausted, and feels it. Kurt has been home for approximately ten minutes, and Rachel has been gone for an hour. Her dads arrived that morning with plans to spend the entire weekend getting her pampered for the baby’s arrival. 

Okay, maybe that had been Santana’s idea, but she wouldn’t let the Berrymen tell her that. Ever.

They’d brought over a few nice bottles of red wine for her and Kurt to relax with, and that’s precisely what they’re going to do. Sit around, relax, and worry over their impending familyhood.

“Do you think…” Kurt says after his second glass, wiggling his toes in his Gucci socks before propping his foot up on the coffee table. “Do you think she’ll let us help name her?”

“Uhh. I dunno.”

“Uncle Kurt,” he says with a huffing laugh before leaning forward to grab the half-empty bottle of wine from the floor. “I like the sound of that.”

“What will she call me?” Santana suddenly looks very serious, her eyes losing their wine-induced glassiness.

“Um. Aunt Santana?”

“No.” She shakes her head and takes the bottle from Kurt. “No. Rachel said. She said.” Santana frowns and fills her glass.

“What?” Kurt’s voice is suddenly very quiet. He watches Santana with a mask of mild concern, but his eyes are sharp and Santana knows better but-

“She said I could be..  _she_ could be mine. Like. I-” she shakes her head fast and blinks. “She wanted to give her up for adoption. A few months back. And I freaked out on her. I called the baby ‘our’ daughter.” 

“Ooh.” Kurt blinks, unable to keep his face from looking surprised. “So you’ll be like. Her mama. Or something.” He looks like he’s ready to laugh. Or cry. Or maybe both. But then Santana is laughing and he follows her lead. 

Santana calls Rachel close to midnight when Kurt has gone to bed, with the earplugs, and she sounds… great. She sounds relaxed. Probably because the hotel she’s in has working elevators and her dads are pretty good at catering to her every need.

“So, good day?”

“Mmm.” She sighs down the line and Santana blushes, for some reason. “I got a fantastic massage. But don’t worry, their foot rub paled in comparison to yours.” 

“Well gee, that’s good to know.” Rachel laughs at her, of course, and it’s kind of breathless and soft. Santana grinds her teeth together and then exhales a breath she never knew she was holding. “So. I have a question.”

“Shoot.” She grunts and then there’s the sound of pillows and bed linens rustling. Santana waits, wondering if she should take her hair down so she has something to play with. “Santana?”

“Er. Right. So, if Kurt is going to be Uncle Kurt. Who am I? To the baby, I mean.”

“Uh. I-“

“Exactly.” She huffs, unfairly annoyed that Rachel hasn’t even thought about something so important to both of them.

“Mama. Of course.” Rachel says before Santana has a chance to get further annoyed.

“You ju- wait what?”

“Mama.” Santana can  _hear_ the blink in Rachel’s voice.

“Of… course?”

“Well, yeah.” She sighs in exasperation, “Santana. I’m not just going to forget about what… what we said to each other because Brody decided  _now_ was a good time to show interest in the baby.” She hadn’t thought about it because it was  _obvious_.

“Oh.” Santana isn’t used to being caught off-guard, but the last eight months have had her off-guard and running. She feels her head spin a little and the flush in her cheeks spreads like fire across her body.

“Mm. So what  _else_ is up?”

She waits a beat, trying to regulate the uneasy flutter of her heart and then, the other real issue. “Got any names picked out yet?”

“Santana….” Rachel sounds mildly irritated, in her own semi-drowsy way, but Santana grins anyway.

“Cause, I mean, I’ve got a few picked out here. They’re really good.” She hears Rachel inhale, as if to speak, but then there’s just a breathy exhale into the receiver and Santana settles back into the pillows on her bed, prepared to read off the fifty names she’s been keeping track of in an old school notebook.


	6. That’s when you feel my kind of love.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The arrangement works for them. Who cares if it's unconventional? Okay, maybe Santana cares, a little.

Rachel starts sleeping in Santana’s bed on accident. They’re watching Netflix on Santana’s laptop while trying to give Kurt and his boyfriend “privacy” in the living room. But Rachel is eight months pregnant and miserably sleepy all the time, so Santana isn’t even offended when Rachel only makes it twenty minutes into  _Kramer vs. Kramer_. She finishes the movie and, rather than wake Rachel from what looks like a deep sleep, she turns off the fairy lights behind the bed and scoots against Rachel. For warmth. She swears.

But it isn’t unpleasant, waking up with her arm across Rachel’s belly, the smell of Rachel’s shampoo in her nose. Because they’re spooning, of course. Brittany taught Santana how to do a backflip off of the high dive, how to do that thing with her tongue, and that cuddling isn’t something to be scared of.

She lies like that for a while, listening to Rachel’s breathing, the water running in the bathroom, and the steady swell of traffic outside. It’s Saturday. She has the day off and nowhere to go. So she soaks in the weirdness of the situation and decides it’s better not to think too much. Rachel is basically alone, and so is Santana, and they fit together, so it’s fine. 

And when Rachel wakes up she doesn’t startle or shuffle away from Santana. She yawns sleepily and snuggles back into the warmth of Santana’s body. Santana tries not to splutter, and stays still.

“Thanks for letting me sleep here. Your mattress is a thousand times more comfortable than mine.” Rachel hasn’t moved except to get closer to Santana. But the baby is moving, doing these little pattering taps against Santana’s hand and Santana tries not to read into it. 

“Hey it’s totally cool.” Santana finally manages, a yawn leaking out to muffle the last half of her sentence. Rachel chuckles and the movement seems to shock the baby because she jolts against Santana’s palm. “Damn this kid is really hopping.”

“Yeah. I’m not sure what that means.” Rachel huffs and breaks away from Santana. The loss is acute and Santana tries not to whine at it and instead sits up herself, letting the sheet fall to her lap.

“She’s probably running out of room. The books say they start to stretch and jiggle around more when room is getting cramped. She’ll slow down, soon.”

“The books?” Rachel turns to look at Santana. Her face is unreadable, her eyes serious but a smile flickering up the corners of her mouth.

“Yeah. You’ve seen me reading them.” Santana rolls her eyes and sits up fully, the warm glow from waking up next to Rachel completely gone. “Someone had to.” She shrugs.

“I could have.” Rachel is grinning now and Santana huffs in annoyance. The weird lighting in her room, a hazy yellow that filters in through the curtains rather than a direct source, makes Rachel  _actually_ glow and it’s sort of distracting. 

“You should start waddling, I think Hummel is almost done.” It’s a little meaner than Santana has been in months, but she’s usually grouchy when Rachel channels her high school self. Rachel stares at Santana with a cold glare, but follows the rude instructions because, somehow, she’d slept through the night and  _desperately_ needed the restroom. 

Santana is a total shithead, Rachel reminds herself while she lets the warm shower ease the ache in her back. An ache that is surprisingly light considering it has been intense every other night. She hadn’t done anything different. Same nightly yoga stretches while Santana was trying to get Netflix to load. Same amount of water and a gentle massage of the lower back muscles before she relaxed onto Santana’s bed.

 _Oh_.

Santana’s bed is  _heavenly_. She huffs, still irritated at Santana, but wondering if she’d be okay with switching sleeping arrangements for the next few weeks. Her due date was really only two weeks away and…

She formulates a proposal while towelling off. The baby jumps as if thrilled by the idea. At least they agree on one thing.

Santana, however, isn’t nearly as thrilled. She argues, over toast and fake sausage, that Rachel has a window.

“Doesn’t that make my area more… um, attractive?” Rachel pops another bite of sausage into her mouth and chews.

“ _No_ ,” Santana sighs in exasperation. And exhaustion. She’s usually still asleep. Or in bed, at least. Rachel just shakes her head and proceeds to start up the coffee pot, a step Santana didn’t think of taking after she got out of bed. 

“Why?”

“Light. And noise. And it’s chillier. You like all of that.”

“Hm. Your area is warmer and darker and-“

“Cosier?” Santana offers with a grumble.

“Yeah.” Rachel nods. 

“You can just  _share_ my bed. We seemed to do just fine last night.”

“Hm.” She taps her chin. The coffee smells divine and her mouth waters instinctively. It’s not decaf, so she shuffles over to the cabinet where they keep the tea and sighs. At least her back feels better.

 _Hm_ indeed.

* * *

Rachel is the most agreeable person Santana has ever shared a bed with. Quinn was all elbows and stole the covers. Brittany never understood the concept of spooning and instead preferred to drape her long, muscular limbs all over the place. Sam was a wet noodle and usually went home before it got too late. Puck never stayed long enough for Santana to get sleepy. 

Rachel sleeps on her side, because she can’t breathe on her back and the stomach is an obvious  _no_. So when they mutually agree it’s time to go to sleep, Rachel turns onto her side and snuggles into the pillows she brought from her ‘bedroom’.

Santana tried sleeping on her back but the bed isn’t necessarily wide enough for that. She tried starting with her back to Rachel’s, but the whole butt-to-butt thing just made both of them dissolve into giggles loud enough to make Kurt shout at them. 

So, it’s spooning. Santana’s front fits to Rachel’s back and her hand lands just right to splay across the front of Rachel’s stomach. The baby presses briefly against Santana’s hand and she’s able to fall asleep easier than ever. 

After a week she gently massages the small of Rachel’s back before she turns the lights off. Rachel had groaned about it while bobbing around the kitchen at dinner and Santana had offered, casually, to rub it for her. Kurt had given Santana a look, which would have started a fight eight months ago, but instead she shot him a withering glare and set about ignoring him for the rest of the night. It didn’t matter that he was right, because Rachel moans her approval as Santana’s thumbs dig into the tense muscles. Good enough. 

Then they curl up together, Santana waiting for the kick of approval from the baby who Rachel refuses to name, and Rachel humming with momentary pleasure that the pain in her back has eased.

* * *

It’s totally screwed up. Santana acknowledges that to Kurt under the fog of exhaustion one morning while Rachel is in the shower.

“But I can’t say no.” Santana sighs miserably and scratches at her hairline anxiously.

“Why? It’s not like y-” Kurt’s eyes go comically wide and maybe if it was less serious, he would laugh. “Oh  _god_ Santana you are in love with her.”

“Shut up Lady Hummel, I do not.” Her expression is dark and she turns around to refill her coffee cup.

“Whatever Santana. But, you  _do_ realise she’s just clinging to you b-” The tap in the bathroom cuts off and Kurt purses his lips. “You know what I was going to say, anyway.” He rolls his eyes dramatically and flits into action to get Rachel’s breakfast together.

* * *

“I care about you.” Santana whispers it, hoping that Rachel is asleep already and she won’t hear it.

“I care about you, too.” She says it with a yawn and snuggles back against Santana. Santana’s breath hitches and she tries not to rest her forehead against the back of Rachel’s head. She fails.

“No I. I  _think_  I-“

“Don’t.” Rachel’s back has gone rigid and Santana freezes in shock.

“Rachel, I really think we should t-“

“Not now. Please.” There’s a wet note to her voice and Santana really, really hopes she isn’t crying. “I’m having a  _baby_ , Santana. Can we just… be this, until then?” 

“What is this, though?”

“I… I’m not sure. Maybe... But. No. That... _feeling_... it's probably... just because of the baby.” Her voice is so small and hollow and she's being so careful with picking her words that it makes Santana frown. Santana wants to ask Rachel _how_ she could possibly know how she feels about all of this, but instead she just sighs and pulls Rachel closer. She learned long ago that arguing with Rachel just makes things more tense than they need to be. And at least no one is storming out of this discussion.

“Okay, Rach. Get some sleep.” 

“You too,” she yawns.

But Santana doesn’t sleep. She listens to Rachel breathe and then Kurt starts snoring. She lies on her back until it aches from holding still and she can see the sun rising from beyond her curtains. She thinks about sleeping in Rachel’s bed, that she wouldn’t mind dealing with a window for a few weeks. 

As if on cue, Rachel rolls over with some grunting and effort, and seeks out Santana’s side with a soft whine. She lets Rachel nuzzle against her arm and, when she falls back into a deeper sleep, Santana thinks that whatever this is is better than nothing.

Kurt can just glare at a fucking wall next time. They’re having a baby, Santana got a second interview at that law firm, and Kurt’s boyfriend’s mother is in remission. Why rock to boat when things are actually pretty good for once?

She cranes her neck and kisses Rachel’s forehead, gently, and tries to get a few hours in before her alarm is set to go off. The baby thumps against the back of Santana’s hand and she dozes off thinking of  _maybe_.


	7. You’re gonna see that sometimes bad is good.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The big reveal, of sorts?

Kurt doesn’t want to think about babies being born. He doesn’t want to think about the pain and the yelling and the mess. But mostly he doesn’t want to think about Rachel giving birth because what if something happens.

But Santana slaps the back of his head every time he mentions his concerns. Not that they’re not valid, but because she’s running on two hours of sleep and the hospital waiting room is cold and sterile and it’s giving her flashbacks to when her abuela was in the hospital for her heart.

…Maybe they’re both just scared shitless.

They’d had to rush Rachel to the hospital at 3AM after two and a half hours of playing ‘is that a Braxton-Hicks’ while Kurt sat on the phone with a nurse from New York Methodist. Kurt is wearing a pair of Rachel’s pregnancy sweats and a knock-off Dior sweater. Santana’s not sure if the shirt she’s wearing is Kurt’s or Rachel’s but it’s tight around her chest and her jeans have a mustard stain on them from lunch.

None of that matters because Rachel is in fucking labour, two weeks early, and the nurses are refusing to let them back to her room.

Kurt starts frantically texting Rachel, who is probably scared and alone and (hopefully) bossing the nurses around. Santana calls the Berrymen while Kurt paces. One of them answers groggily and, then frantic at Santana’s news, informs the other to start making reservations. Santana foggily registers it’s Berry One, Leroy, but not until she’s disconnected on the assurance they will be there in the afternoon.

Kurt quick-steps across the empty waiting room, a grimacing nurse in tow, and motions for her to follow them. Santana has enough presence of mind to snatch up Rachel’s hospital bag and purse before rushing after them.

For a birthing centre, it’s all eerily quiet, and Santana wants to say something about it. But she doesn’t get the chance because they come up on Rachel’s room and the nurse mutters something about ‘maybe YOU can reason with her’ before leaving them.

Rachel is sitting stubbornly in an arm chair in the corner of the room rather than lying in the bed. The bed which is unmade. And she has this look on her face that makes Santana burst into laughter as all the tension leaks out of her at once. Rachel is  _fine_ and she looks like a harassed hamster. 

“Santana-” Kurt starts, but then Rachel is laughing and struggling to stand up, so they rush forward to help her.

“I’m so glad you guys are here.” Rachel huffs and starts towards the bed. “They wanted me to get in it but, I yelled at them that I wouldn’t until they let you back here.” 

“At least they got you in a gown.” Kurt mumbles and smooths Rachel’s hair before retying the topknot on her hospital gown. “But  _why_ is it pink?”

“They’re all pink. Or purple. But they were out of purple.” Rachel frowns and sits on the edge of the bed. “I haven’t let them check me yet.”

Santana growls, just a little, before jabbing the call button and letting the nurse know that  _Miss Berry_ is ready for her check up.

The contractions were six minutes apart when the nurse said to head to the hospital. The cab ride had been a full twenty minutes of Rachel squeezing the bejeezus out of Santana’s hand through each contraction  and Kurt wondering why Rachel hadn’t picked a closer hospital. (“Because,  _Kurt,_ her OB contracts with Methodist. And they’re like, the best hospital for this stuff.”) But when Rachel finally gets settled and examined, the monitors tell them that her contractions are three minutes apart (“ _I_ could’ve told you that,” Rachel snaps through a contraction). Kurt tries not to faint when Rachel’s legs go up in the stirrups, or when the nurse pulls back her hand and states, “she’s at six centimeters!” 

“I really don’t want them to explain th-“

“I could,” Santana mumbles under her breath and Kurt looks at her like she told him she wears Keds. “It was in one of those books I got.” She shrugs and rolls her eyes.

“About that arrangement…”

“Not now,” she says through her teeth and forces a smile when Rachel glances over at them. 

* * *

“I want them both in here.” Rachel says with a groan, shifting position on the stupid balance ball she keeps returning to, even though it makes her butt go numb. It’s seven in the morning and Kurt is mostly asleep on the sofa by the window, but Santana hasn’t been able to relax. She’s wired on too much coffee and a sense of responsibility to see things through the end. Not that she would ever let Rachel know that.

The nurse she’s talking to has been trying to needle the father’s name out of Rachel for the past ten minutes and Santana can feel her blood pressure rising. She's not the first nurse to do this, either.

(“Wouldn’t you want, I don’t know, your family hear? The baby’s family?”

“The baby’s family  _is_ here.”

“What about its fa-“

And then a call light goes on down the corridor and Santana thanks a stranger who probably wants ice chips.)

This time, Rachel is dealing with thirty second long contractions that feel like her insides are being ripped apart. She’s not fucking around any more.

“Are you sure, sweetie? We could call someone.”

“My dads are flying in from Ohio.  _These_ are the only people I want in here besides the medical staff.” She hisses and rocks back on the ball. Santana resists the urge to rush over and help her keep balance. She wonders if Rachel is rethinking the whole 'natural childbirth' thing. “So please stop asking me if I want my baby’s mom and uncle to leave.” 

The nurse flushes immediately and hurries out of the room without saying anything. Rachel doesn’t seem to register what she said, because she’s grimacing through another contraction, but Kurt shoots Santana a shocked look and scrambles to his feet.

“Uhh Rach. Maybe…" He catches the look on Santana's face and tries to keep from rolling his eyes. "Uh. Could I  _not_ be in the room?”

“What?” Rachel blinks at him, rocks on the ball, and exhales slowly. “Why?”

“Um. Well.” His face turns pink as he fumbles for an explanation.

“Oh. It’s the vagina thing, Rach.” Santana does her best not to laugh, and only fails a little. Kurt glowers, but nods. 

“Oh.  _Oh_. Right. Well. Of  _course,_ Kurt. I wouldn’t force you to stay, anyway.” She smiles slightly and Kurt looks ready to faint from relief. But then Rachel is looking at Santana with wide, pleading eyes. Santana huffs with irritation and rolls her eyes.

“Like I would go anywhere and leave you in the hands of that nurse.” 

Rachel looks relieved for about five seconds before she purses her lips and exhales slowly.

* * *

Birth is  _dramatic_. But Rachel isn’t really screaming, which is a relief, and the doctor let them play that Enya CD the Berrys sent. So it’s not… well, it’s nothing like Hollywood childbirth.

Santana decides, while holding Rachel’s leg per the doctor’s instructions, that maybe she SHOULD have pretended to have an aversion to vaginas because she’s the only person in the room that Rachel knows besides the doctor. At least she’s temporarily unemployed, so she won’t have to find a clever way to hide the bruises on her forearm from where Rachel is gripping  _her_ instead of the bed frame. 

And maybe she shouldn’t have looked when the doctor said ‘I can see the head’. 

But she was like 90% positive the baby would have hair, for some reason, and the baby _doesn’t_ and -

Santana feels very light headed all of a sudden.

There’s a nurse there, gently pressing a hand against Santana’s back, with a small knowing smile that makes Santana feel worse. At least she stays upright. Santana Lopez will not faint during childbirth.

The baby is a little blue when she comes out and Santana tries not to panic. She’s not good at it, her brow creasing instantly, and any relief Rachel felt is instantly replace with - “what’s wrong?”

But then the baby wails and Santana lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. 

“Stubborn little sausage.” Dr. Mueller chortles and places the baby on the blanket on Rachel’s chest. And then a nurse offers Santana a pair of scissors.

“I-” she blanches and lets out a nervous whimper. 

“If you don’t want to…” Rachel’s voice is quiet, soothing, her focus shifting from the baby in her arms to Santana, pale as a sheet and gripping the medical grade scissors.

She looks at the baby. Red and wet and streaked with gunk.  _Vernix_ , she remembers from the last book she read. ”No. I got this.”

She doesn’t faint. But she  _does_  lose her appetite for sausage. 

* * *

The nurses throw around a lot of terms, but the doctor assures them that they’ll get a file with all of the important information. All they know is that the baby has a great APGAR score and Rachel still hasn’t picked a name.

Or hasn’t decided to tell anyone, at least.

So Baby Girl Berry and Rachel get wheeled to a room on the other side of the unit after Rachel delivers the placenta. (Santana’s knees went weak at that point and she had to hold onto the bed or she would’ve ended up on the floor.) 

The room is a hundred times nicer than the delivery room, thankfully, because Santana doesn’t plan on leaving it until Rachel does.

“You have a beautiful family,” the nurse - the same one who kept pressing about the baby’s dad - stutters out as she hands Rachel the baby from its little bassinet. 

Rachel doesn’t correct her. But she does request that she find Kurt because he’s probably dying. Or sleeping.

Santana tries, really hard, not to get mad at Rachel for stalling on the name. Because she just had a baby. And she’s probably anxious to see Kurt. And Santana just got a text from the Berrymen letting her know they were en route to the hospital straight from La Guardia, twenty minutes away by the driver’s estimation. 

“Your dads will be here soon,” she yawns, suddenly feeling the weight of being up almost 24 hours.

“Oh.” She blinks, and then succumbs to a yawn. The baby shifts in her arms and mouths at the air. “Darn.”

“Darn?” Santana snorts and, quietly, drags one of the stiff backed chairs next to the bed so she can look at the baby while resting her feet.

“I was just hoping for a little more time to relax with her. You know. They’re going to breeze in here and take control of the situation.”

“Also, that nurse said you were supposed to try breastfeeding in an hour and-“

“Oh please don’t let me think about that.” She winces and Santana can’t repress a chuckle.

“She’s pretty cute, yanno.” Santana nods after admiring the baby’s tiny fist that’s sticking out of her swaddle. “I know Brody’s an asshole, but he has really stellar gen-“

“Miranda.” Rachel says quickly, never looking away from the baby. Santana’s mouth opens and closes like a fish.

“What?” She says after a moment. 

“Miranda,” Rachel says again, looking at Santana now with soft, gentle glow that the books call ‘motherly bliss’. 

“Oh.”

“Miranda Berry. Doesn’t that have a nice ring?” Santana just nods. Nods and blinks. Because, _because_ -

“That was the first name on my list.”

“I… know.” Rachel chews on her bottom lip, indecision clouding the glow.

“I thought. Um. I don’t know. Why not Barbra?”

“Santana,” Rachel laughs, a little loudly, and the baby flails her limbs. “ _My_ middle name is Barbra. I can’t just name her after me.” Rachel rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. Smiling so wide that the corners of her eyes crinkle. 

Santana takes a moment to watch her watching the baby. Her hair is matted, damp bangs longer than last year and pushed to the side carelessly. She wonders, not for the first time, if Rachel would be okay with her brushing the hair away from her cheeks.

“So, Miranda.” Santana says, trying to stave off the blush that usually happens when she thinks about weird, not-platonic stuff like that. “Do you have a middle name yet?” 

“I’m between Rose or Isabelle. What do you think?”

“Isabelle.” She says without hesitation.

Rachel regards her for a second, looking over Santana’s face with an unreadable expression, and then looks down at the b- at Miranda. She smiles, and nods.

“Miranda Isabelle Berry. She won’t even have to change it for a stage name. Do you want to hold her?”

“Duh.” Santana rolls her eyes and stands up, taking Miranda from Rachel’s hands with careful expertise. Miranda doesn’t cry, she just yawns and flails a hand. Santana doesn’t have time to catch herself before she busts out a goofy grin and gently taps Miranda’s mouth with her finger. She looks up when Rachel clears her throat, and can feel a blush racing from the tips of her ears down to her toes. “I babysat. A lot. Um. How else do you think I was able to afford all of those designer boots?” She would wave her hands in the air but she’s busy with the baby. Their baby, she supposes, since Rachel  _said_ and then let her cut the cord. 

That was definitely something they’d need to talk about.

There’s talking down the hallway accompanied by quick footsteps.

“Like I said, Santana’s with her.”

“What’s her name?” That’s Berry Two, Hiram, and he sounds breathless.

“I don’t know. Rachel hasn’t t- hold on this is it.” 

And then the Berrymen and Kurt burst into the room, sucking all of the air and peace out of the space and replacing it with a grand sense of theatricality. Leroy is already singing  _Circle of Life._ Rachel looks like she wants to melt into the floor.

But then Miranda starts to wail and Santana’s faith in humanity is temporarily restored.

O brave new world, indeed.


	8. A strange new combination of the things we’ve handed down.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Santana is changing.

Miranda is home for all of three days before Brody tries to insinuate himself into the equation. Kurt runs him off in the stairs, catching him on his way to run an errand for Isabelle. There’s shouting, apparently, but Santana and Rachel are trying to sleep upstairs and the pink noise machine (courtesy of the Lopezes) makes the entire apartment a quiet, blissful oasis away from the city’s noises.

When Kurt storms back upstairs four hours later, he’s pink from his hairline to his neck, and (once he sees that Santana is changing a very awake Miranda) immediately launches into a rant.

Rachel is furious. Santana’s pretty sure they’re all seeing red.

Two days later, Rachel hasn’t had it in her to do anything. She’s so exhausted from pumping (a sight which makes Santana and Kurt leave the area immediately), the baby, and just healing her body that she shrugs and says, “I’ll deal with it when I have to,” when Santana corners her about it in the kitchen.

Which, in Rachel speak, means she’ll wait until Brody shows up again. And he’ll probably catch her at a time when she’s feeling vulnerable. And Santana can’t have that slimeball rolling back into their life after she’s done such a good job wearing the shoes that he never wanted to fill.

So she meets him at his usual morning coffee spot. He’s halfway through convincing a girl to make out with him when Santana stalks up, hands on hips, and snaps. “YOU.”

“Oh my god. Is this your girlfriend?” The girl is blond, large eyed, and too tanned for a New York autumn. It makes Santana seethe a little more.

“Wh- I. No. Santana?” Brody tries to say it nicely, but his tiny eyes are hard and focused and his lip twitches involuntarily. Santana stares right back, her face set in an unwavering scowl. “You should go, Mindy.”

“Mandy.”

“Whatever. Just go. You have my card.”

“Ugh. You’re such a scumbag.” But Mindy-Mandy is already clacking off, out of the not-Starbucks, looking more confused than offended. Santana sits down, slowly, letting rage boil through her blood on slow cook.

“What?” Brody finally says after silence stretches between them for a minute. He looks flustered, annoyed, and kind of smug. That might make Santana hit him.

“You are not allowed to come by the apartment. Understood?”

“Excuse me?”

“I know you heard me.” Santana’s expression stays flat. It’s a perfect acting lesson, really.

“I,” Brody clears his throat, a bit of that cocky ego wavering. “Did she send you, or something?”

“No. I came because she’s too exhausted to deal with your shitty personality defect. You gave her up, okay? She’s not your baby, and you have no right to try and wiggle back into her life. Our life.” Santana is practically shaking, but she keeps it together, because her refined version of going all Lima Heights is not worthy of this deep v-neck sweater wearing douchewad.

“I just wanted to see her.” Brody smirks, just a little, like being an ass is cute.

“Well. You can’t. Says so in the papers.” She casually brushes a few empty Splenda packets towards Brody and straightens up. “Miranda isn’t your daughter. Not any more. When you signed those papers you agreed to that.”

“I know.” His expression falls and for a moment, Santana spends a split second actually thinking he cares about the baby. But then the grin is back and as if. “What if I want to be back in Rach-“

“Rachel’s life? Seriously? Dude she just had a fucking baby, okay. _THAT_ is her life. Not your tiny dick and ego problem. Go screw Ms July if you want a little boost.”

He actually looks offended, but Santana is already pushing out of her chair with a scowl on her face.  
“Seriously. If you come by the apartment, you will lose your testicles. And my nails are short, so it might take a little more work.”

Brody has enough sense to wince, which Santana looks back in time to see as she exits the coffee shop.

* * *

Miranda is not a perfect angel by any means. She’s a _baby_. Babies cry. Babies crap up the backs of their diapers and ruin sheet sets and cute footie pyjamas. Babies keep you up all night because they haven’t developed a sleep cycle. Babies kind of suck.

Santana is constantly reminding herself of that fact. Miranda’s not a full human yet. And, really, they don’t even know each other that well, so why would she expect anything less from Rachel’s offspring? So she doesn’t always grumble through a middle of the night feeding when Rachel asks her, in a tiny voice, if she can help warm up the bottle. (Which, is every night, by the way.)

Santana is still unemployed, luckily, so she stays home with Rachel while Kurt goes to make a name for himself in the fashion industry. Or fetch coffee for stick insects. One of the two. And Rachel only gets two weeks off from her in-person classes at NYADA before they’re bound (by school regulations, or hell-beasts) to give her an incomplete. So, two weeks after Miranda has been home, on a Tuesday morning, Rachel leaves them alone for the first time.

And it’s not a _total_ disaster.

Miranda spits up every time she gets burped, no matter what, and no one has figured out how to avoid getting it on the shirts (it’s like she knows there’s a burp cloth there, and decides your arm is a better place, anyway). But then Santana gets it in her hair and, after hyperventilating, takes to Google.

She makes a note to show Rachel when she gets home… And then takes a shower with the baby swing in the bathroom.

Halfway through Miranda’s nap, when she knows Rachel is going from her first to her second course, Santana sits on the fire escape and calls her mom because she hasn’t actually spoken to her parents since the baby was born. She talked to Coach Sylvester for ten minutes on Sunday about how to con the government into paying for baby diapers. She even talked to Mr. Schue for a few awkward minutes, trying desperately to explain why Finn was so upset. (“It’s not _my_ fault, Mr. Schue, he was a total dick to Rachel when he found out she was pregnant and then he comes sniffing around after she has the baby? That’s total bullshit.” And then he’d spent the rest of the time listening to Santana rant in Spanish he couldn’t understand.)

Her mom is still a teacher at Lima Elementary, so she catches her during the last five minutes of lunch.

“ _Mija_ , I didn’t think you were ever gonna call.” Her mother sounds strained, but that’s her normal ‘at-work’ voice. “How are you? And Rachel? And, oh, how is everyone?”

“We’re all good,” she shudders and huddles down into her pea coat. “Um. Rachel’s in class today, the school wasn’t budging on their two-week maternity leave policy. But she only has to do it once a week until finals.” Her mom ‘mms’ gently and Santana takes that as her cue to continue. “Kurt’s at Vogue full-time, which is great, but he’s never home when the baby’s awake and he’s exhausted all the time. But he has the best income in the apartment so,” she shrugs, even though no one can see that.

“What about your job?”

“Starbucks? I quit.” She smothers a yawn with the heel of her hand and leans her head back against the window so she can listen for the baby.

“Santana…”

“I know, I know. But I have another job lined up in a couple of weeks, working for some law office as their secretary. Good pay, good hours, and it’s just in Park Slope.” Santana huffs. The street is so quiet Santana can hear the music coming from the bodega on the corner - Beyonce, naturally - and the sounds of her mother rustling around on the other line. She’s not sure where to go from here, pleasantries aside, because she’s never really had a deep conversation with her mom about relationships or Rachel …or the baby.

“So, how’s, you know, the baby?” Her mother’s voice is light, like she’s smiling, or reading Santana’s mind. Santana grimaces and rolls her eyes at no one.

“She’s um. She’s great. She’s sleeping right now. Uh. I had to take a shower ‘cause she kind of barfed in my hair.” Her mom laughs, and she feels a little tension eek out of her shoulders. “Um and yeah. It’s cool to spend some time with her, without Rachel hovering around to make sure she’s not hungry or whatever.” Santana chews on her lip and tilts her head back again, feeling blood rush to her ears because she knows she has to ask someone and Brittany is so out of the picture. “Mami?”

“What is it, baby?”

“Rachel said I could be … I am Miranda’s other mom.”

“Oh. Are you two…?”

“No. At least… I don’t think so. We haven’t talked about it.” Santana presses her lips together so hard it hurts. “She sleeps in my bed. And we spend all day together. Well. With the baby.”

“Santana…”

“Mom. I know.” She inhales deeply and presses her free hand against her forehead. Maybe it was a bad idea to talk to her mom. “I just, I dunno, living with her, spending all this time with her. I think…”

“Yes?”

“I think I’m f-”

“Oh co _ño_.”

“MA!” Santana jerks so hard she slams her head against the brick side of the building.

“Sorry. Not you. And don’t call me that, you’re starting to sound like a New Yorker. Just, my class is back so, call me tonight?”

“Sure, sure.” Santana sighs and rubs the back of her head. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, mija. Remember to breathe.” The line goes dead just as she hears a little kid yell ‘MRS LOPEZ’.

She bangs her head back against the building before she can think twice. _Ouch_. And then like she was waiting for Santana to start a downward spiral, Miranda starts crying from inside the apartment and Santana almost trips as she tries to crawl back inside.

Really, whoever picked the windows for the building didn’t realise people would be crawling in and out of them all the time.

* * *

Santana doesn’t really mind changing diapers. It’s not as gross as she thought it would be, and she thinks that’s part thanks to Miranda being a girl. She’s better at it than Rachel is, which is an imaginary badge for her imaginary Girl Scout vest, and she kind of digs the time at the changing table because once Miranda is clean and dry (and wearing a new outfit, of course), she can spend a few unobserved minutes pulling faces at the baby who can’t even really see her.

But something is different this time. Santana knows to expect this. She’s been reading the books, waiting for the moment when something clicks for Miranda and she starts watching their faces. Even so, when she’s done snapping up the legs of Miranda’s puppy footie pyjamas and leans down to blow a raspberry in Miranda’s face, she’s almost knocked over by Miranda looking her straight in the eyes and cooing.

Santana’s pretty sure her smile would split her face in half if it was any bigger. She tickles Miranda’s belly gently and earns a wiggle, but the baby seems content with staring at Santana’s face, her tiny mouth in the shape of an O as her eyes scan Santana’s face. Like she’s _memorising_ Santana.

Warmth squirms its way into Santana’s chest, filling in the cold hollow that had formed while on the phone with her mother. Miranda’s eyes are wide with wonder. Santana hopes she’s not the only one falling in love.


	9. I’m gonna love you so right I wouldn’t need a second chance.

“So what did you two do today?” Rachel drops her purse on the kitchen table and makes a beeline for Santana who’s sitting on the couch with Miranda on her lap.   
  
“Um. We ate. We napped. Oh! She made eye contact.” Santana shifts the baby off of her lap and into Rachel’s waiting arms. “And I learned a new trick for burping her.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“I can’t keep washing my hair every time I burp her. So you just, well, I’ll show you after she eats.” Santana hops up and offers Rachel her spot on the couch. “Stir fry?”  
  
“Santana, it’s my night…” Rachel frowns.  
  
“You look beat. Plus, we’ve been locked in a staring contest for the past hour. I need to stretch my legs.”  
  
Rachel grins and gently traces the curve of Miranda’s cheek. “Alright. And sure, stir fry sounds fantastic.”

* * *

“Oh my god Santana, she looked  _at_  me.” Kurt is leaning over the crib, making faces at Miranda who seems content to just stare. She’s been doing that all night, now.

“It’s weird, right?” Santana is stretched across the couch, her feet across Rachel’s lap for once.   
  
“Definitely.” He stands up and stretches. Alexi, Kurt’s new boyfriend, stumbles out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist.  
  
“Where are my clothes?”  
  
“Um.”  
  
“Kurt took them.” Rachel offers casually and Kurt looks at her, scandalised.  
  
“ _Kurt_.”  
  
“They’re in my room.”  
  
“Oh.” Alexi grins and saunters to Kurt’s ‘room’, dropping his towel just before he disappears behind the curtained wall. It’s a second, long enough for both Rachel and Santana to get a full view of Alexi’s naked backside.  
  
“Oh my god Kurt.  _Seriously_.” It’s Rachel’s turn to look completely scandalised.  
  
“I can’t help it. He’s beautiful.” Kurt swoons and practically skips across their apartment to his room.  
  
“Please, go to his place if you plan on going any further.” Santana shouts, earning a slap on her thigh from Rachel. “What?” She grins and unmutes the TV. 

* * *

There’s a knock on the door after they’ve been watching back-to-back Friends episodes for two hours (an unspoken ritual that Kurt never takes part of), and Santana looks at Rachel pleadingly before Kurt comes running out of the kitchen like a man possesed.   
  
“Oh,” Santana shakes her head, “why don’t you just give Alexi a key? He’s here like, every night.”  
  
“We’re not there yet, Sant-…  _Brody_.” Kurt frowns, holding the door half-open. Brody steps in, hands in his pockets, and just nods at Kurt in greeting.  
  
“Wh-”  
  
Santana is off the couch before Rachel can finish her thought. She steps up to Brody and registers a thrill of pleasure when he flinches, but scowls when he doesn’t back away. She’s made of 98% bravado but this is in that 2% exception where Santana  _really_  wasn’t kidding.  
  
Kurt wedges between Santana and Brody and presses back against Santana until she stumbles back a few steps.   
  
“Santana…” Rachel is finally off the couch and moving to the group by the door. She says Santana’s name softly, pleadingly, and it makes Santana’s back stiffen immediately.  
  
“Don’t say my name like that, Rachel.” Santana clenches her teeth so hard she feels like her jaw might pop. She hasn’t stopped staring at Brody, who is just shuffling awkwardly under her gaze and stares at Rachel like she has control over Santana.  
  
“Rachel, I just wanna talk.” He shrugs, hands still in pockets.  
  
“About?” It’s Kurt, this time, and Santana notices that the back of his neck is pink. She can only imagine what his face looks like.    
  
“You know, I  _can_  speak for myself.” Rachel huffs. “What do you want to talk about, Brody?”  
  
“Um. Well. Us?”   
  
“Oh h-”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“What?” Santana turns around to stare at Rachel, not even trying to hide her surprise.   
  
“I said we’ll talk.” Rachel shakes her head when Santana opens her mouth to speak.  
  
“Then I need to go.” Santana snaps, grabs her purse and shoes from next to the door, and leaves the apartment before Kurt or Rachel can do anything. The last thing she sees is Brody’s smug face before she bumps past him and out the door.

* * *

“Santana! You can’t just storm out of the apartment.”  
  
“Why?” They’re standing on the street, now, after Rachel chased her down the stairs, yelling her name the whole way. Santana is on the verge of tears, for reasons she understands but refuses to acknowledge, and Rachel looks like she’s almost there, too.  
  
“B-because. We need you up there.”   
  
“We? Or  _Miranda_. Because you’re going to have a heart-to-heart with your piece of shit baby daddy and you need someone to keep an eye on your kid?”  
  
“No! That’s not it! I-I just… don’t know what I’m going to do… but he’s her _dad_.”  
  
“So? You grew up without your mom. You’re perfectly fine without her now. Miranda doesn’t need  _him_. She has  _us_.”  
  
“But… doesn’t he deserve a second chance? Don’t… don’t I deserve a second chance?”  
  
“Rachel, there are people who wouldn’t need a second chance, and that’s what you deserve.” Santana is huddling into her sweater, which is completely inadequate for how cold the early December night is.  
  
“Santana, every person I have ever been with-”  
  
“That shouldn’t stop you from looking for someone better.”  
  
“And who would that be.” Rachel rolls her eyes and shuffles. “I have a baby. The dating pool just shrunk considerably.”   
  
“If you seriously think that you’re a fucking idiot. And Alexi is coming,” she points with her chin at Alexi, who is practically dancing up the sidewalk with headphones on. His skin glows orange in the streetlight and his smile is almost blinding when he notices them. “You should make sure he gets in fine.”  
  
Rachel turns her head in the direction of Alexi’s footsteps, and with the movement, Santana takes off, walking as fast as her Uggs will let her go.

* * *

“Brittany,” is all Santana manages to choke out for the next five minutes. She sitting in that one Middle Eastern place that never closes and is always full of shitty hipsters drinking tea and talking about French new wave cinema. She has a cup of the tea herself, but it’s gone cold and the waitress keeps looking at her like maybe she should say something. But no one does, and no one goes near her until Brittany and her new girlfriend pick her up and pay her tab.

* * *

“When are you coming home?” Kurt’s voice is strained and he sounds more tired than Santana’s ever heard. But it isn’t as moving as it should be.  
  
“When she gets her head out of her ass.” She jabs the red button on her phone’s face and throws it under Brittany’s dorm bed.

* * *

She’s gone for a week. A week, she realises, is almost a decade in baby development. She looks at BabyCenter on her phone and prays Miranda hasn’t discovered her hands or feet without her there. She hopes Rachel and Kurt are talking to her, and tickling her belly like she likes, and burping her in that way she found online.  
  
She sleeps on Brittany’s floor, because Brittany’s girlfriend stays over every night. They’re polite and wait until Santana excuses herself to take a shower down the hall. Santana hates the people at Juilliard, because they never talk to her and treat her like shit, but for once she isn’t offended and is glad when no one tries small talk while she’s shaving her legs.  
  
She ignores Rachel’s phone calls, texts, and voicemails the entire time. The count is over two hundred by the time Friday rolls around again and, tired of Santana throwing her phone across the room, Brittany answers for her at 8PM.  
  
“Brittany?”  
  
“Yeah. Rachel. What did you do?”  
  
“I… nothing. I mean. I let Brody stay and talk-”  
  
“That’s shitty.”  
  
“He just wanted to talk!” Rachel is crying, Brittany realises, and her expression softens considerably.   
  
“Okay. Well. Santana is really upset.” And she is. She’s currently swearing like a Spanish sailor down the hallway, and Brittany’s girlfriend is desperately trying to calm her. (“ _Look why don’t you just… we should probably go outs-… I don’t understand what you’re saying!_ ”)  
  
“I know… I’m… Can you tell her I’m sorry? That we need her to come home.”  
  
“We?”  
  
“Y-yeah. All of us.” Rachel sniffles, wetly and deep, and Brittany rolls her eyes and stares at her nail polish with mild interest.  
  
“What about you?”  
  
“Of c-”  
  
“Of course you do, right? But why can’t you ever tell her that. You’re raising a baby with her.”  
  
“Ye-, well, Santana wanted this, too.”  
  
“You know, that doesn’t really sound like a Santana thing to do.”   
  
“Um. Well. I… I thought.”   
  
“Thought what?” Brittany perks a little and stops examining her nails.  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“I never thought you were stupid, Rachel, but you’re kind of acting really dumb right now. I bet Kurt could tell you.”  
  
“I…” Rachel exhales so sharply into her end that Brittany winces and pulls Santana’s phone away from her ear. “Just, tell her to come home.  _Please_ Brittany.”  
  
“Alright.”

* * *

She goes home that night. How could she not? When Brittany relayed the message that Rachel needs her, it’s almost automatic how her feet carry her home, on the subway first and then winding through the neighbourhood until she passes their bodega. It’s a Lady Antebellum night and Peter behind the counter seems genuinely happy to sell her a pint of Clusterfluff and two cheese danishes. 

The apartment is quiet except for the low hum of the pink noise machine. The TV is on and Rachel is curled up on the couch under a blanket. Santana can’t see Miranda in her crib from the door, and a jolt of fear races through her body that Brody has her for the night. Like a custody agreement was reached without Santana being consulted.  
  
But then there’s a gurgle and grunt and Santana notices the bassinet by the couch for the first time. And the limbs flailing out in the blue-grey TV light.

“You’re home.” Rachel’s voice is small and sleepy. Being back in the apartment, with Rachel looking at her, Santana feels an overwhelming wave of relief wash over her.  
  
“Yeah. Yeah, I am. I’m… I’m sorry.”  
  
“You shouldn’t be.” She rolls onto her back and looks at the ceiling rather than look at Santana. “I am. I’m sorry, Santana.”   
  
“Is um…”  
  
“Brody isn’t here. I told him he didn’t have any place in Miranda’s life… or mine.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“I had to hear him out. And then tell him myself.”  
  
“Okay.” Santana closes the door to the apartment and locks it before putting her purse down and pulling off her shoes. She walks quietly across the apartment to the kitchen and puts up the ice cream and danishes. “Where’s Kurt?”

  
“Um.” She looks confused for a moment and then nods, just a little, “he got tired of all the crying so he’s been at Alexi’s since Wednesday.”  
  
“Crying?”  
  
“I’m,” Rachel swallows and shakes her head. “I’ve been really upset about you being gone.”  
  
“Oh.” Santana sits down on the couch, shifting Rachel’s feet so they’re in her lap. It’s too late for Friends but a re-run of King of Queens is on and things almost feel normal. Santana feels a little numb to it all, but she rubs Rachel’s ankle when she starts to sniffle a little.   
  
“Are you back with Brittany?”  
  
“ _What_?” Santana’s hand stops and she grips Rachel’s ankle a little, her eyes widening in genuine shock.  
  
“I um, you were at her place and I thought…”  
  
“Oh.  _Oh_. No. Um.” Santana lets out a nervous ‘ha’ and squeezes Rachel’s ankle again. “she has a girlfriend. At Juilliard.”  
  
“Oh. Right.” Rachel shakes her head and Santana sees a small smile flicker across her features. It’s gone quickly and the sniffling is back. Santana can see Rachel’s eyes tearing up in the TV light and Santana sighs.   
  
“Rachel. We’re fine. It’s just, I overreacted, right? I’m just really emotional lately, I’m probably going to start my per-”  
  
“I need you.”  
  
“-iod… wait what?” It’s the kind of thing that a Santana has been waiting to hear, and it bangs around inside her head creating a million emotions at once. Her face settles on ‘shocked’ and she slowly looks down at Rachel.  
  
“I need you. Not we. Miranda would be fine without you. Kurt would be fine without you. But  _I_ wouldn’t. And… and,  _god_ , I’m so sorry it took me this long to tell you.” Rachel keeps eye contact with Santana the whole time, and Santana tries desperately not to squirm under the intensity of it.  
  
“Thank … you,” Santana manages after a few seconds. “I need you, too.”  
  
It takes a few minutes, but they eventually stop staring at each other and Santana turns the volume up on the last ten minutes of the episode while Santana gently rubs Rachel’s feet. At some point Miranda fusses and Santana hops up to shush her and put her in her crib. And then, without saying anything, Santana turns off the TV and ushers Rachel into her bed.   
  
It’s whatever. Santana’s sure they’ll talk more later, when they’re not emotionally drained and tiptoeing around a sleeping baby. But in that moment she’s never been so relieved to crawl into bed next to Rachel Berry and curl against her back. She doesn’t fall asleep quickly, even after Rachel’s breathing has slowed and deepened. She just can’t stop thinking about Rachel, who needs Santana, and Rachel, who spent a week crying because Santana wasn’t home.   
  
Lying there in the dark, with her hand now resting in the empty space where Miranda had been, Santana lets herself think the word ‘love’ for someone other Brittany for the first time in her life.


	10. Not such a sweet thing.

"You're kidding." Santana stretches and watches Rachel walk around the kitchen, picking up to-go containers and chopsticks leftover from entertaining her dads, Kurt, and Alexi.  
  
"Nope."  
  
"I thought it was just for tonight."  
  
"They're trying to convince me to let them take her home in advance of the holidays."  
  
"What, really?" Santana sits up so fast she feels the four beers she had with dinner rush to her head. " _Whoa_."  
  
"You okay?" Santana just nods and waves her hand for Rachel to answer her question. "Yeah. They want to take her back to Lima for a week before we go home."  
  
"We, eh?" Santana grins and stands up slowly. The baby has turned her into a _lightweight_.

"Well, they expect you there Christmas morning."  
  
"Crap. That's right. How are we going to manage Christmas eve?"  
  
"Mm," Rachel bumps the fridge closed with her elbow and walks over to where Santana's standing, hovering really, between the living room and the kitchen. "Let's think about that later. We are currently baby and roommates free. What do you want to do?"  
  
Santana feels all of the blood drain out of her face and pool somewhere low in her belly. She's a hundred percent sure Rachel is _not_ coming onto her, but she's also pretty sure that her body doesn't know the difference.  
  
"I um... uh. It's Friday. We... um, Friends?" She tries not to whimper, because Rachel is standing close, and she looks _so hot_ in just a black dress. Nothing like she's the mother of a child ( _their_ child). Santana's pretty sure the beer is making her think about Rachel masturbating. _Oh god_.  
  
"Hm," Rachel purses her lips and then, maybe Santana should take off her boots because she's so much taller than Rachel and it gives Rachel the power to look up at her through her lashes.  
"Alright. Go get changed into something comfy."  
  
Santana starts towards her room and then turns around to look at Rachel. "Uh... you?"  
  
"You know me better than that." Rachel wrinkles her nose and heads for her bedroom, which still really just serves as her closet at this point.  
  
Santana's got her pyjama pants halfway up her legs when she hears Rachel curse and then, slyly, "Santana..?"

She rolls her eyes, finishes pulling her pants on, and shuffles over to Rachel's area, only slightly self-conscious of the fact that she was still in her bra.  
  
"What, R... what the _hell_."  
  
"Er. Help?"  
  
"How did you..." Santana steps closer to examine the fine mess of Rachel's bra, the back clasp stuck in between layers of Rachel's hair, and the wire popping out of the side under the arm that Rachel is holding in the air.  
  
"I have no idea. I haven't worn a back-clasp bra since I was, like, four months pregnant." Rachel groans and dips her chin against her chest, " _please_ help."  
  
Santana laughs and sets about removing the tangled clasps from Rachel's hair, "if you didn't use so much product it wouldn't be so hard."  
  
" _Hah_. You're one to talk."  
  
Santana glares at the back of Rachel's head and tugs a little too roughly on some of her hair. She doesn't expect Rachel to moan, just a little, and immediately feels her skin turn to fire in response.  
  
Her hands are shaking, but she manages to free Rachel's hair from the tangle. She gently lets go of Rachel's hair, but traces her fingers down a few inches of Rachel's spine.  
  
"Oh." Rachel shivers and Santana bites her lip before stepping back. "  
  
"Um yeah. You're good." She bobs her head in a nod and tries to imagine herself melting into the floor in real life. But then Rachel turns around and Santana is suddenly starkly aware of the fact that Rachel is in her _underwear_ and it's just her forearms covering her chest and. " _Shit_."  
  
"Santana?"  
  
"I should go finish getting dressed. We're _totally_ missing Friends right now."  
  
"That's fine." Rachel says it lightly enough, but it socks Santana square in the chest. And then she's looking at Santana with those dark brown eyes and-  
  
Rachel kisses her.  
  
It's the release on a pressure valve that's been building for ages, but Santana's still more than surprised to feel Rachel’s mouth against her own. Rachel’s mouth that tastes like the glass of chocolate wine she’d just finished. Rachel’s mouth that is insistent and moans when Santana kisses her with the same need. And then Rachel is reaching up and sliding her hands up Santana's shoulders and to her neck.  
  
Rachel's _hands_ are on Santana's _neck_ and not covering her _chest_. Santana's brain breaks. But her hands are on autopilot and she's thankful for that when she traces her nails down Rachel's side and Rachel stutters a moan.  
  
Rachel's hands drag through Santana's hair and tug, just lightly, as payback Santana imagines, and then again so Santana tilts her head back and Rachel can...  
  
" _Fuck_." And then Rachel makes a noise that’s like hot water rushing through Santana’s core. She traces Santana’s jaw with her lips and bites softly at the spot right below Santana’s ear. Santana feels like she's going to faint, so she grabs Rachel's waist and pulls her close, the lace fabric of her bra rough against the softness of Rachel's skin.  
  
"I need," Santana gasps as Rachel's mouth trails down her neck. Santana runs her hands up Rachel's sides and brushes her thumbs against the underside of Rachel's breasts.  
  
"Wh- _ah_.” Santana wedges her fingers between them, enough to drag them across Rachel’s nipples and make her whole body jerk in response. “What do you need?" Rachel barely lifts her mouth from Santana's neck to talk. Santana can feel her wet her lips and she thinks her head might pop off.  
  
"Can we uh move to the bed? 'Cause, I'm not sure my knees will hold me up for much longer..." Santana's glad it's dark, glad she doesn't blush so visibly, because her whole face would be red.  
  
"S...” Rachel pauses, and then groans. “Oh _no_." She drops her forehead to Santana's shoulder and groans again.  
  
"What? ‘Oh no’ _what?_ " Santana blinks. The abrupt shift is not in her operations manual so her body is still humming from Rachel's touch, even as Rachel steps back and is no longer pressing against her.  
  
"I can't... we can't..." And then Santana feels her heart plummet through the floor. "I have to wait six weeks."  
  
It takes a minute for Santana to reset and then process what Rachel's saying. Beer and arousal don’t mix.  
  
"So wait. I can't _touch_ you because..."  
  
"I need a green light from the doctor."  
  
"Oh my _god_ that's right." It's Santana's turn to groan. She lets go of Rachel's sides and steps back a step away from her. "I read the books. I've read that. I _knew_ that." She smacks her head with her hand, just a little, but thinks maybe an ice cold shower is in order.  
  
"I'm so sorry. I just. I thought." Rachel swallows, and looks just about as awkward as Santana feels. "I got caught up."  
  
"Well _that's_ good to know." Santana grunts, trying to shake the feeling of Rachel's mouth from her skin. It definitely doesn't work. "I should. Uh. Friends, right?"  
  
Santana is pleased that Rachel looks as disappointed as she feels.

* * *

"You're sleeping in your bed tonight." Santana says with a sigh and a frown. Rachel looks like she wants to argue but she just exhales dramatically and nods. 

* * *

Santana can't sleep. She never could when Brittany would work her up and then leave her dry until she decided to stop being a tease. Sometime it was fucking _weeks_ because Brittany is a mysterious fairy and - and Santana really can't think about that right now.  
  
She rolls onto her stomach and groans into her pillow. The sheets are twisted up around her waist and her hands are caught between her stomach and the mattress.  
  
Suddenly the situation seems _extremely_ familiar.  
  
And Santana decides to take a page from Brittany's playbook. She rolls back over and pushes her hand into her pants. She knows she's wet and she knows she can do it fast, but when she thinks of Rachel's noises, all those months ago, she inhales sharply and decides to drag it out as long as she can handle.  
  
She traces a tight circle around her clit and gasps, _oh_ , before spreading her knees apart.  
She's not trying to be quiet, but she almost laughs when she hears a gasp from Rachel's side of the apartment. It's enough encouragement.  
  
Santana grits her teeth, it doesn't do much to stop her from moaning when she presses two fingers inside, but it helps her focus on something else. The response from Rachel's side is immediate, a strangled groan, and Santana flushes with satisfaction. The feeling quickly turns to intense pleasure as she picks up the rhythm she knows works best, arching her hips down as she slides her thumb across her clit.  
  
Somewhere she registers it's _not_ going to take her that long and disappointment quickly dissolves when she scissors her fingers inside her and drags her thumbnail down her clit.  
  
It takes a few more firm circles but Santana’s knees start shaking and she’s pretty sure her vision goes black. But she holds onto the twinge in her jaw from where she’s gritting her teeth and pulls herself back from the edge.  
  
She thinks about Rachel, all those months ago, the breathy moans she thought no one could hear, the soft squeaking cry that Santana had gotten off to so many times. She thinks about Rachel’s long legs spread wide and imagines herself between them, imagines the noises Rachel makes are because of _her_ and that when she squeaks, she’d say Santana’s name.  
  
The thought makes Santana moan and, “ _oh fuck._ ” She doesn’t have time to grit her teeth or think about the mailman or any of the tricks she’s heard of along the years because pleasure slams into her like a brick and she slams her head back with a cry.  
  
“ _You are the absolute worst Santana Lopez!!_ ”  
  
Santana laughs, breathing hard and trying to stretch a charlie horse out of her calf. She’s suddenly exhausted and flops onto her stomach gratefully, reaching to the floor for a shirt to wipe her hand on. Kurt’s voice is in her head, calling her a pig, but she’s too sated to care.  
  
“You’re sleeping in your room until I can touch your boobs, per doctor’s orders.” Santana says it mostly into the pillow, but Rachel hears her and just makes a choked, outraged noise that makes Santana chuckle just before her eyelids get too heavy to keep open.  
  
\----  
  
She wakes up curled against Rachel’s back, one arm slung possessively around her middle and the covers kicked almost completely off the bed.  
  
“Huh...?” She’s groggy and her whole body feels heavy, but she’s pretty sure she remembers sending Rachel to her own bed last night so she could- oh. She blushes and buries her face against Rachel’s shoulder.  
  
“Morning,” Rachel mumbles and rolls over in Santana’s grasp so she can snuggle closer.  
  
“You were supposed to sleep in your bed,” Santana gripes, but pulls Rachel close regardless and kisses her forehead.  
  
“You don’t lock your door,” Rachel laughs, her eyes still shut. “Why did you do that to me last night? I never asked my doctor if I could...”  
  
“S’fair game, Berry. You did that to me for _months_.”  
  
“What?” Rachel tenses and Santana can practically feel her eyes snap open.  
  
“Um. Yeah. You used to... and it would wake me up and … I guess I got to release the pressure though.” Santana yawns and stretches, rubbing her hand up Rachel’s back. “So last night wasn’t totally fair.”  
  
“Oh _god_ I thought everyone was asleep.”  
  
“The sounds of a lady pleasuring herself will always wake me up.”  
  
“Pleasuring herself? Really Santana?”  
  
“Shh, I’m tired.” She emphasises this with a yawn and presses her head back into the pillow, hoping to get a few more minutes of sleep before the Berrymen call.  
  
“Hmm. You know what, Santana?”  
  
“Wha?”  
  
“The doctor never said _anything_ about kissing.”  
  
Santana doesn’t get a chance to process, because Rachel is kissing her again and, okay, Santana can live with waiting a few more weeks.


	11. If you ask me, I'm ready.

“I’m not doing this on a dance floor,” Rachel pants and tilts her chin back so the light from the disco ball dances across her face. Her skin glistens blue and she’s sweating so much her hair is sticking to her neck. They’re surrounded by a few hundred people from Brittany’s two senior years at McKinley, nerds in argyle sweaters and hot sophomore cheerleaders grinding together on the second floor terrace of the Lima Heights golf club. Two years ago Santana wouldn’t have been caught dead having fun at a party like this, but age and a baby has changed her.  
  
Also, it’s the first time since Christmas that she’s gotten a chance to be with Rachel without multiple parental figures and/or Miranda around.  
  
“Why?” Santana pouts and slides her hands down Rachel’s back and rests them on her hips. It’s not something she would ever say out loud, but with the way Rachel is moving her hips to the music it’s easy to understand why she got knocked up.  
  
And then Santana’s right back to being turned on. She pulls Rachel’s body flush against hers and nips at her earlobe. “Pl-” she gasps sharply when Rachel’s nails scratch over her shoulders. “You suck,” she groans and leans back a little.  
  
“Sorry,” Rachel laughs and tilts her head up to kiss Santana’s chin. “Can we get some punch?”  
  
“You mean that boozy swill that Puck brought?”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
“We should get you away from the baby more often,” she hooks her arm around Rachel’s waist and drags her out of the dancing throng towards the concession table, where Brittany and Sam and a few of the baby Glee club members are standing and chatting. And drinking Puck’s punch, of course.  
  
“There you two are!”  
  
“SAM!”  
  
“Trouty Mouth! I thought you weren’t gonna make it.” Sam’s arms are around their shoulders and he’s pulling them to his chest with the power of a full grown ox. He’s laughing and the sound rumbles through his chest and vibrates into their bodies. Santana is smiling so wide she feels like her face is going to split. It’s the alcohol. Really.  
  
“Nope! The Greyhound rolled in just in time. My family says hi.” He lets them go and steps aside, his usual Sam smile lighting up his face.  
  
“Gimme some punch, Puckerman,” Santana can hear Rachel mumbling the order over the punch bowl, holding two of the plastic wine cups out for Puck to fill. He glares, but it’s less effective when he’s already filling one of the glasses. “Here.” She steps around Sam and pushes one into Santana’s hands.  Sam looks at her, this awkward furrow to his brows before -  
  
“So, uh. A baby?” He scratches the back of his head, opting to look at the buffet table next to them rather than at Rachel.  
  
“Oh,” Rachel blinks and then, after a pause, nods. It was easy to forget that she hadn’t been home since the positive test, because her dads had come to New York and then Quinn had visited for half a day during her second trimester. Denial is good, sometimes. The news had spread fast and far, but no one outside of Kurt, Brittany, and Blaine had even met Miranda before the Christmas . “Yeah. She’s um. She’s home, with my dads. They’re watching her for us while we’re out.”  
  
“Us?” Brittany chimes in from somewhere behind Sam and suddenly she’s standing at his side, brows raised.  
  
“Um. Santana’s parents are out of town so she’s staying with me at my parents’...” Rachel is floundering and takes a big swig of the punch to occupy her mouth for a minute.  
  
“Oh, cool.” Brittany grins and disappears behind Sam again to continue what sounds like an animated discussion about cats with Marley.  
  
“Anyway. Yeah. But... Santana is leaving tomorrow night so maybe we can do brunch on Friday?”  
  
“Brunch?” Sam laughs and wipes his hand down his face, “uh yeah. Sure. Can brunch mean Denny’s?”  
  
“Brunch can mean she’s cooking,” Santana bumps Rachel with her hip and shakes her head. “She won’t even burn the kitchen down, promise.”  
  
“ _Santana_.” Rachel flusters and finishes her drink. “I’m getting more.”  
  
“So what’s it like, living with a baby?” She hears Sam ask Santana as she steps away and tries to listen as she moves to the punch bowl.  
  
“Um. You know. It’s awesome.” Santana pauses and Rachel shoots daggers at Jacob Ben Israel, who is trying to talk to her about maybe hitting up Temple on Saturday. Really. Santana is mumbling something, and then Sam says something in a mumble back, and Rachel tries not to spill the punch on herself as she walks back. “-and you know, nighttime feedings are way more rewarding when she smiles, yanno?”  
  
“Not really, but that sounds neat. I see all of that tandem babysitting you did for my siblings with Quinn really paid off.” He’s takes a sip of his beer and grins at Rachel.  
  
“You  _babysat_  for him?”  
  
“Just a few times, more to keep Quinn company than anything. They had crazy early bedtimes.” Santana smiles and pulls Rachel back to her side, like they belong standing like that.  
  
The punch is squirming its way through Rachel’s bloodstream, making her flush and giddy and want to climb Santana like a ladder. But then Quinn is in front of them, saying something about “one more dance before midnight” and Santana is waving at her apologetically as she disappears onto the dance floor.   
  
“Damn.”  
  
“You wanna dance with me?” Sam offers.  
  
But then Brittany is taking Rachel’s half-empty cup out of her hands and grinning ‘bye’ at Sam as she drags her out for a dance.  
  
“But.”  
  
“ _C’mon_ , it’s my party. Everyone else has danced with me. Well, except for Santana, but she’s at least dancing with Quinn. She looks really hot tonight, though.”  
  
“Who?” Brittany’s hands are guiding Rachel’s hips against hers in time with the music and it’s distracting Rachel from searching out Santana and Quinn in the crowd.  
  
“ _Quinn_ ,” Brittany breathes in exasperation and draws Rachel close enough to lean her forehead against Rachel’s and make eye contact while she moves their hips together. “You look really pretty tonight.”  
  
“Th-thanks,” Rachel blinks and feels her cheeks burning. “Um you look great.” Rachel breaks the eye contact and her eyes rove down as much of Brittany as she can see without moving her head. And Brittany does look great, in a dress tighter than Santana’s and heels taller than Rachel’s. It’s pretty obvious that New York isn’t just agreeing with Rachel’s aesthetics.   
  
“I know,” Brittany grins and slides her hands up Rachel’s back at the same time she’s sliding her bare thigh between Rachel’s legs.  
  
“Oh god,” Rachel gasps before she’s able to shut her fucking mouth and she feels Brittany huff a laugh against her hair. “You um. You know I’m-”  
  
“Yeah, but like, you’re really hot now that you stopped wearing animal sweaters and it’s New Year’s.”  
  
Rachel just shrugs, like, she can’t argue with that, and rolls her hips in time with the music, letting Brittany set their sway pattern with the leg between Rachel’s thighs. It’s definitely the best dance she’s ever been dragged into, and she’s pretty sure she catches Finn’s shocked face staring at them from the punchbowl. But then there’s laughing and a shriek that Rachel instantly recognises as Quinn’s and both of them look in the direction this time.  
  
“Huh.” The noise Brittany makes is small but Rachel’s jaw has dropped because Quinn is dangerously close to twerking against Santana and Rachel’s not sure if she should cry or laugh. “She can’t really dance when she’s drunk.” And then Rachel laughs and puts her head on Brittany’s shoulder with a relieved sigh.  
  
“At least they’re having fun.”   
  
“Yeah. More like, it’s totally awesome they’re still friends.”   
  
“Huh?” Brittany’s hands are drawing a map up Rachel’s back and it’s doing a good job of distracting Rachel from thinking about anything, including her … daughter’s other mother really enjoying swaying against Quinn’s ass.  
  
“Yeah, well, since the last time they saw each other, they had sex. Bu-”  
  
“Wait, what?” She’s struggling to keep the hysterical tone out of her voice. She leans back to look at Brittany, who is just smiling cat-like, and then drops her hands to Rachel’s waist and pulls her hips in tight again. Rachel’s eyelids flutter slightly and she bites her lip, trying to focus on what Brittany said, instead of what she’s doing. “Ah, what?” Rachel says again, a little clearer this time.  
  
“Yeah. They had sex. After Mr. Schue’s not-wedding reception last year.”  
  
“Oh. Um.”  
  
“So it’s good they stopped being weird about it. It’s just sex. Sex is awesome. Right?” She practically purrs it and Rachel’s entire body blossoms with heat at the insinuation in her voice. Oh.  
  
“Uh.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Ye- actually,  _no_. No it’s totally not good.” Rachel  wriggles out of Brittany’s arms and frowns.  
  
Brittany smiles so broad it almost looks predatory and for a second Rachel considers the offer. But she shakes her head and Brittany shrugs. “It’s almost midnight.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“You’d better find someone to kiss.” Brittany winks, and then is sauntering back off the dance floor like she owns the place. Which, for the night, she sort of does.  
  
She locates Santana and Quinn easily, because they’ve gyrated around enough to carve out a hole at the edge of the dance floor. Their backs are to her now, but Santana’s head is tilted back and Rachel can hear her laugh over the music.  
  
She feels herself stalking across the dance floor like she’s in high school again, but she can’t stop herself. She practically rips Santana off of Quinn. In the space of time it takes Santana to turn around and register Rachel’s expression, Quinn has barely even noticed the lack of hands on her hips. She only turns around when Santana stutters out Rachel’s name.  
  
“I’m  _not_  causing a scene,” Rachel says mildly, but her whole body feels like it’s throbbing with angry heat. She desperately wants to cause a scene. “But, I think that since we’re a few minutes from the ball drop, I would really like to be dancing with my girlfriend.”   
  
She takes Santana’s hand in hers and drags her away, refusing to listen to the shocked apologies Santana directs at Quinn.  
  
The music has switched to something slow and the adrenaline drains from Rachel’s veins when Santana pulls her close and wraps her arms around her back. “Are you okay?”   
  
“I … um. No.” Rachel is grateful that Santana chose her tallest heels because she can rest her forehead against Santana’s shoulder without it looking weird. Or feeling weird. It just feels right.  
  
“Why? We were just dancing.” Santana blinks and watches Quinn slip into Finn’s arms with a shrug.   
  
“That wasn’t dancing,” Rachel squeezes her eyes closed hard, trying stamp back the tears that she can feel stinging her.   
  
“Yeah. I mean, Quinn is apparently taking a history of hip hop dance class at Yale and she wanted to show me all of these crazy moves she’s already learned. It’s hilarious, because she’s so white.” Santana laughs and it makes Rachel want to cry even more.   
  
“But you two-”  
  
“What?” Santana’s voice is suddenly strained and Rachel doesn’t need to look at her face to know the dangerous expression on it.  
  
“You two had sex the last time you saw each other.”  
  
“Uh, no.” Santana blinks rapidly and then it clicks. “Oh. You mean at Mr. Schue’s not wedding? We’ve seen each other since the- wait how did you know?”  
  
“Brittany.”  
  
“ _Oh_.” Santana rolls her eyes and rubs Rachel’s back slightly, “look Rach we’re just friends. It was a... well, you slept with Finn at the wedding.” Santana doesn’t say that that’s totally gross, but it’s implied with her tone.   
  
“ _Well_...”   
  
“Uh huh.” Santana grins and squeezes Rachel just a little. “You know, we have some unfinished business, you and I.”  
  
“Oh?” Rachel looks up and catches the look on Santana’s face. She bites her lip and feels herself blush and, really she needs to stop drinking alcohol because she whimpers a little when Santana’s nails trace patterns up the exposed skin of her back. She’s a little weak-kneed and she would voice blame on Brittany’s very expert hip rolls but then the PA system cuts on and the ball drop live from Times Square starts playing over the speakers.  
  
“TEN! NINE! EIGHT!”  
  
“Santana I think we should-”  
  
“SIX! FIVE! FOUR!”  
  
“Here it comes!”  
  
“TWO! ONE!”   
  
There are kazoos and party poppers going in all directions. Balloons dump from the ceiling (so that’s why there was a black tarp up there) and someone releases a confetti bomb that Rachel knows she’ll have to spend days combing out of her hair. But none of that matters because Santana is kissing her, demanding and hot, and threading her hands up into Rachel’s hair. It’s just like when they’re lying in bed, the curtains pulled tight and Miranda asleep in her crib. Except they’re in public and there’s no baby to rush home to, no roommate to be quiet about, and Rachel moans against Santana’s lips because it’s been way too long.  
  
“That was totally hot. You should’ve taken me up on my offer.” When they pull apart Sam and Brittany are standing nearby, Brittany’s glittery lipstick smeared across Sam’s mouth and cheek. His previously coiffed hair is messed up and he looks a little too dazed to say anything.  
  
“Oh. God.” Rachel covers her face and refuses to look up, even at Santana who is straight up laughing.  
  
“You propositioned Rachel?”  
  
“Yeah, like, her legs are killer in that dress. I wouldn’t mind scissoring. But clearly she’s taken so.” Brittany shrugs, but ‘scissoring’ seems to have dragged Sam out of his daze because he is looking pointedly at Rachel’s legs and turning dark red from his ears down.  
  
“You should take Carol Channing  away before he busts a nut prematurely.”   
  
Sam makes a noise, something between a croak and a scream, and hurries off the dance floor before he can turn any redder.   
  
“You know,” Rachel turns her attention from Santana’s shoes to her face, allowing her leisure to trail her gaze over her body first, “my dads paid for a hotel room.”  
  
“Yeah. It’s their twenty-fifth anniversary. Why did they do that again?”  
  
“An uninterrupted weekend with their granddaughter? What more could a couple of old gay men want?”  
  
“Better lube? OW!” Santana flinches back at the slap Rachel lands on her hip. “Rude.” But she’s grinning and dips back down to kiss Rachel, quicker and a little sloppier this time because her lipstick is already hopelessly smeared and she doesn’t really care that she can practically feel Finn burning holes in her head.   
  
“Mm,” Rachel mumbles against Santana’s mouth and nips her bottom lip before tilting her head back. “Let’s just go to the hotel before I jump your bones on the dance floor.”  
  
“I’m really not opposed to that, actually,” but she knows Rachel is, so she tugs Rachel off the dance floor and just grins at Brittany as a goodbye. They’re best friends, she doesn’t need to say anything. But Rachel is chattering off farewells to anyone who will listen, like she isn’t in Lima for another week and doesn’t have plans every.single.day. Whatever.   
  
They’re outside and shrugging on their jackets because fuck it’s cold. And snowing. And Santana’s shoes are velvet. But, whatever. Rachel’s hands are on her cheeks and they’re kissing as they wait for the valet to bring the car around and it’s almost surreal, with the snow falling and the distant sound of music from the patio. Rachel’s nails are blunt, dragging through Santana’s hairline, and her teeth are sharp against her bottom lip, but the illusion is shattered when the valet pulls up in the Berrymen’s silver Prius and tosses Santana the keys. Which she almost misses and barely keeps from flying into Rachel’s face.  
  
Oops.  
  
Rachel is scared of driving in the snow, so that means Santana has to try not to be distracted by Rachel’s legs in that dress while she drives the five miles to their hotel. She spends the entire ride biting her bottom lip so hard she almost slices the skin open.  
  
She really isn’t paying attention to anything but Rachel’s ass while the receptionist is listing the hotel’s fine amenities and continental breakfast. She’ll figure it out. But in that moment Rachel is leaning forward against the low counter, smiling and nodding while she rocks back from one foot to the other so her ass is basically dancing under the sparkly fabric of her dress and-   
  
Santana is so glad they start moving because she was about five seconds from reaching out and touching. And that would be bad considering the hotel is kind of swanky and probably frowns on fondling in public. Apparently Rachel’s dads are premium members and, gross, but they have a regular room that Santana and Rachel are graciously booked in for the night.  
  
And their room. Santana swears to evaluate it later, but once they close the door Rachel’s hands are pulling off her jacket and Santana just has enough time to think “damn that bed is big” before Rachel kisses her.  
  
They fumble their coats off at the door. Rachel trips over both of her heels before they make it across the room, and Santana laughs against Rachel’s mouth as she guides the zipper down on Rachel’s dress.  
  
“Not fair,” Rachel pants and gropes the back of Santana’s dress until she finds the tiny zipper pull at the nape of her neck.   
  
“Sorry,” Santana grins and pushes the fabric of Rachel’s dress down enough to expose her bra, which is black and awesome. Santana is trying to get a good look but Rachel rocks forward on her toes since Santana is still in her heels and kisses her again. She kisses more gently this time, and uses both hands to pull the straps of Santana’s dress down until they’re free of her arms. The dress falls to the ground and Santana kicks it away, along with her heels. Santana isn’t wearing a bra, and she might blush at the presumption, but Rachel moans quietly and runs her hands from Santana’s shoulders and over her chest.  
  
Santana pushes Rachel back to the edge of the bed, one hand guiding her at her shoulders and the other one working down the tight material of Rachel’s dress over her stomach and hips.   
  
“Lemme,” Rachel reaches for the fabric that’s now bunched at her hips, but Santana slaps her hands away and glares.  
  
“No way. It was supposed to be three weeks. Now it’s five and I’m going to enjoy this.” She slides both hands down Rachel’s sides, using her nails to scratch lines against the soft curve of her hip and then tugs the fabric down to where it can just slide down her legs. “See? I got it.” Santana smirks and puts her hands on her hips, watching Rachel step out of the dress and toss it in the area of the windows.  
  
Santana’s really trying not to leer, but Rachel has fantastic taste in underwear and all she can think is, “Jesus you bought La Perla?” She mentally cringes at the fact that she’s so hard up she can identify a lingerie set at the drop of a hat. She’s kind of glad, because Rachel’s eyes practically glow with pride.  
  
“Well...” Rachel looks down her front at the black bra-and-boyshorts set. “Yeah. For tonight.”  
  
Santana bites her lip and tries to fight back the moan that slips out anyway. The idea of Rachel picking out special lingerie makes the blood rush down from her head and straight into a hot throb between her legs.  
  
Rachel is standing there in over a hundred dollars of underwear, looking at Santana like she’s unsure of something. “I’ve never-”   
  
Santana shakes her head and then kisses her, whatever it is isn’t as important as Santana being able to kiss down Rachel’s neck and bite her bare clavicle.   
  
“Bed,” she mumbles against Rachel’s skin and tries not to grumble at the fact that Rachel has to move away to accomplish the task.  
  
The bed really is gigantic. Santana feels like she’s crawling across it forever before she’s finally hovering over Rachel. It’s on the list of ‘things she never thought she’d do’, even though she’s pretty sure she’s wanted to do it since as far back as she can remember. The reality is, Rachel has always been hot, even dressed as pedophile’s dream, and now she’s basically naked underneath Santana and her hands are sliding up Santana’s stomach and cupping her breasts. Timidly.  
  
“Oh fuck.” Santana shuts her eyes and tenses the muscles in her arms to stay upright. “Um. I might... I mean, it’s been awhile-”  
  
“Well I’ve never-”  
  
“So we’re good?” Santana laughs and feels like her skin might catch fire from the heat of Rachel’s hands. Rachel smiles and runs her thumbs across Santana’s nipples, making Santana groan and shut her eyes.  
  
“Definitely,” she says shakily and drags her hands down, using her thumb to trace lines down Santana’s front until she hooks them in the red waistband of Santana’s underwear. “You should-”  
  
“Got it,” Santana says a little too fast and sits back on her knees, shoving her underwear down until she has to step off the bed to finish getting them off.  
  
“This is awkward,” Rachel groans, but Santana is crawling back up her body and then dragging her panties off with this look on her face that makes Rachel’s heart rate jump through the roof.   
  
“Yeah, but,” Santana kisses just above her right knee and nudges Rachel’s thighs apart with her hands and kisses a line up her inner thigh. Rachel gasps and shudders, spreading her legs wider as Santana moves up. “But, we’ve been waiting long enough.” She hovers her mouth between Rachel’s thighs, just for a beat, long enough to breathe hot air against Rachel’s thighs. Her legs jerk and she slaps her hand over her mouth on instinct.   
  
“Fuck,” Rachel mumbles against her hand and drops it away from her mouth when she remembers where they are.  
  
“Uh huh,” Santana kisses below Rachel’s belly button and then runs her palms up the insides of Rachel’s thighs and stopping with the tips of her fingers a few inches shy of the apex. Rachel whines and twists a little, but Santana just chuckles and continues kissing up Rachel’s stomach.  
  
“I’m sorry I’m...”  
  
“What?” Santana sits up, her hands tightening on Rachel’s thighs for grip. She watches Rachel’s eyelids flicker closed, her thumbs are right there, and takes a second to look down Rachel’s front. Her bra is still on and Santana debates even taking it off. It’s magnificent. And practically sheer. She sweeps her gaze down over Rachel’s stomach, where red circles from her mouth cross over the pale silver-pink stretch marks that Santana has never once cared about, but it twists something inside her to see her lipstick over them and-  
  
Santana realises she’s staring at Rachel’s stomach with a dumb expression and feels herself blush despite the fact that she was obviously admiring. But Rachel has this tortured look on her face. So Santana leans forward, placing her hands on either side of Rachel’s shoulders, and looks her in the eyes.  
  
“You’re really hot, okay?”  
  
“But I have stretch marks.” She frowns, and twists her hips, tightening her thighs against Santana’s knees.  
  
“So does my ass. And you like that.” Rachel rolls her eyes, but blushes her confirmation, and Santana grins. “You had a baby Rachel. Stretch marks are a part of all that. And,” Santana kisses her, softly, taking a beat to not ruin the moment totally with her libido, “you’re gorgeous, okay?” She blindly runs a hand between them, stroking her palm down Rachel’s stomach - which is practically flat now, thanks to Zumba.  
  
“Oh,” Rachel tilts her head up and kisses Santana again, squeezing her eyes shut when Santana’s hand slips up under the see through fabric of her bra and grazes her nails over Rachel’s nipple. “Oh god.” Santana bites her lip and sighs, untangling her hand from Rachel’s bra and shoving it between her back and the bed to undo the clasp.  
  
She has to sit back and fumble with it for a few before she finally feels the last clasp pop open and the material loosens around Rachel’s chest. She tries not to look giddy but her eyes are practically gleaming and Rachel doesn’t even stifle the giggle that wrestles up out of her throat.  
  
“You’re like a teenager. I’m honoured you waited so long.”   
  
“How could I not?” She tugs the material loose and tosses it over her head. “Totally worth it,” she practically whispers, dragging her thumbs up Rachel’s ribs before closing her palms over Rachel’s breasts and just groping.   
  
Rachel lets out another giggle, but this time her face is flushed and she wriggles her hips, bringing herself down until she’s pressed against Santana’s knees and - oh right - Santana tries really hard not to whimper. She bends down and kisses Rachel’s sternum, once, twice, before shifting one hand away from Rachel’s tits and replacing it with her mouth.  
  
Rachel’s head snaps back against the mattress when Santana’s lips make contact with her nipple. Santana makes a mental note to ask her if anyone has ever done this before because the way Rachel shakes at the soft pressure of her lips is a pretty big tell.  
  
But she’s busy. Rachel’s boobs are fantastic. She’s suddenly okay with the extra formula expense because, okay she understands it’s their purpose, but it would be just a little weird for Santana to be down with that.  
  
She wonders how long she can focus on them before Rachel gets too frustrated and pushes her away. Even if it’s further than she’s ever gotten before.  
  
Then she remembers: they don’t have to rely on foreplay anymore, because the doctor gave them the green light and Rachel’s dads are eleven miles across town with the baby and - god she can spend as much time as she wants with this. She grazes her teeth over the stiff peak and Rachel actually hisses her approval and arches into the touch.  
  
When she switches sides, using her tongue to mark a path, Rachel grips her shoulders and whimpers, “I... can’t.”   
  
“Huh?” Santana’s jaw freezes, her teeth poised to bite Rachel’s nipple, and looks up slowly at Rachel’s flushed face.  
  
“I mean,” she swallows hard and arches her back a little, “you’re not the only one who's been waiting.” She huffs and tightens her  grip on Santana’s shoulders. Awareness dawns on Santana and her jaw basically drops.   
  
“You-” Rachel just twists her hips against Santana’s legs and Santana’s mouth goes dry. “Oh.” She puffs her cheeks out and lets her head drop to Rachel’s sternum, looking down the length of Rachel’s torso to where Rachel rolls her hips again. She feels like maybe she should say something but it’s really nice to look at and Rachel doesn’t seem offended, she just moves her hips in this fluid motion that she had to have learned recently.  
  
Santana moans after a beat and scoots down the bed, tracing the contours of Rachel’s stomach with her lips until her chin brushes coarse curls and -  
  
“I’m surprised it’s not a star,” she chuckles and nudges Rachel’s legs open wider. Rachel makes a strangled noise and sits up on her elbows.  
  
“Funny, Lopez... I tried that in tenth grade and-” Santana gently strokes two fingers up and opens Rachel so she can easily run her tongue over Rachel’s clit. Rachel’s elbows give out and she lands on her back with a thump. “Oh fuck.” She doesn’t miss Santana’s smirk. She feels it. And then Santana is rolling her tongue like a wave over Rachel’s clit and all Rachel can do is run her fingers through Santana’s hair and make needy noises in the back of her throat.  
  
Fear jolts through Rachel when she feels Santana stroke over her entrance. But, Santana is gentle, and presses one finger inside her slowly. Rachel’s vision goes hazy as a twinge of pain rides in with the pleasure of of Santana’s shallow thrusts and Rachel feels herself unwinding rapidly.  
  
“S-santana,” she pants, rolling her hips back from Santana. Santana grunts something and grazes Rachel’s clit with her teeth. “Fuck!” Rachel presses her shoulders into the bed and arches her back off the bed. Santana thinks she hears her name again, this time in a moan, and she has to clench her thighs together to keep focused on Rachel.  
  
“More,” Rachel moans after a few rough passes from Santana’s tongue. Her thighs are shaking and she’s so close but she needs more.  
  
“Fuck, Rach.” Santana groans and nods, sliding a second finger on an in-stroke as she sucks on her clit. Rachel tenses and Santana holds still, waiting for some instruction. It comes quickly, Rachel’s hips jerking towards Santana’s mouth with Rachel whining please beneath her breath.  
  
Santana swears she almost comes right there.   
  
She curls her fingers up with each thrust. She wants to see Rachel’s face, watch this happen, so she breaks her mouth away and moves up to hover over Rachel fully, her fingers still curling into Rachel, and she replaces her tongue with her thumb.  
  
“Oh,” Rachel moans and Santana bends down to kiss her. Rachel sucks on her bottom lip, tasting herself there, and Santana practically loses it again. Instead she focuses on Rachel’s face and the feel of her hips canting against her hand. She takes a gamble and flicks her thumbnail diagonally across Rachel’s clit. The reaction is intense.  
  
Rachel’s back arches and she inhales sharply. Santana does it again, from a different angle, and Rachel yelps, her hips jerking into Santana’s hand so hard it jars her wrist. One more time, Santana drags her nail down over Rachel’s clit, slowly, and Rachel’s body goes still.  
  
Pleasure explodes hot between Rachel’s thighs and ricochets through her body like a taut spring being released. She doesn’t see stars, but colour bursts behind her eyelids and comes in waves with her pulse. She manages to gasp out Santana’s name and then Santana’s kissing her, soft and slow, and she’s coming down so hard the only thing that keeps her grounded is the sharp, immediate pain of a charlie horse spiking up from the toes in her left foot.  
  
“Ow ow ow.”  
  
Santana practically jumps off the bed with how fast she pulls away from Rachel.  
  
“Oh my god did I-”  
  
“Charlie horse,” Rachel groans and slowly flexes her leg. Santana looks as relieved as the one time when she discovered Miranda’s soft spot the hard way.  
  
“But you...”  
  
“Yes,” Rachel practically shouts, then blushes and adds, “yeah. Um. Yes.”  
  
Santana sighs and cuddles up to Rachel’s side. “You want me to rub your leg?”  
  
“No, it’s okay.” Rachel stifles a yawn as guilt transforms her features. “I um...”  
  
“We’ve got the room ‘til noon.” Santana says gently, wondering if she can run into the bathroom for like, five minutes, or if it would be rude.   
  
“Excuse me?” Rachel’s head turns to the side so fast Santana can hear the snap. “I was going to ask if we could order coffee from room service because I’m so not done with you.”  
  
“I... wait, really?”  
  
“The room has a jacuzzi tub with multi-coloured LED lights. You seriously didn’t think I was going to let a little sleepiness keep me from that, right?” Santana just shrugs and then Rachel kisses her, hard and with a note of outrage. “Really, Santana, it’s like you’ve learned nothing these past months.”   
  
She rolls onto her stomach away from Rachel and reaches for the phone on the nightstand. Rachel immediately scoots close, pressing the front of her body against Santana's side and strokes down Santana's back. Santana orders an absurd amount of coffee and tosses the handset onto the ground. "Thirty minutes. I don't know why it's going to take that long but..."

"Great," Rachel shifts to her knees and kisses Santana's shoulder.

"While we're waiting... maybe we should... talk about this." Santana wriggles as Rachel kisses along her back and starts down her spine.

"What's to discuss?" Rachel murmurs as her hands stroke circles up the back of Santana's thighs.

"Uh. Um.  _Oh_. Miranda? This? Us?" Santana groans into pillow when Rachel gently spreads Santana's thighs.

"Well. You're always going to be Miranda's mom." Rachel mumbles, kissing Santana's neck through her hair. " _This_  is the best sex I've  _ever_ had..." her mouth is drifting back down Santana's back and her knuckles stroke through the dampness between Santana's legs. Santana's hips jerk up automatically and she hisses loudly. "And  _you're_  my girlfriend," Rachel says in a gasp against the middle of Santana's back as she pushes two fingers into her.

" _Oh fuck."_


	12. Ho, hey. (I belong with you. You belong with me.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not everything is easy to say.

“Oh my god. My nipples are so hard it hurts.” Rachel whines and discreetly rubs at her chest with her forearms. She’s wearing, like, three layers, but the wind chill factor has the temperature hovering at 20 degrees in the sun.  
  
“Hard nipples are happy nipples,” Santana says with an unconvincing smirk and shudders as wind gusts down the street and hits her like a frozen brick.  
  
“No, hard nipples are miserable nipples. Let’s just go in for some coffee.” Rachel is already power walking across the street, avoiding a flow of taxi traffic that Santana has to let pass before she can join Rachel in front of the Starbucks.  
  
“I really don’t like Starbucks, Rach.”  
  
“No, you don’t like Panera. You can’t boycott Starbucks, they have a good company policy and,” she grunts as she yanks the door open, fighting the wind the whole way. “And you haven’t worked here, so.”  
  
“Whatever,” Santana mutters and puts her hand on the small of Rachel’s back, guiding her into the Starbucks and to the back of the long, miserable line.

* * *

“Okay, this was a good idea. When did Kurt say he’d meet us?”  
  
Rachel checks her watch and sighs. “Ten minutes ago. But he’s probably stuck in traffic.”  
  
“I hope he is and that he’s not trying to tough it out on the subway.”  
  
“He’d better not,” Rachel frowns and blows away steam rising from the surface of her coffee. They’d managed to get the last two arm chairs near the back of the cafe and Rachel had sent a series of un-answered texts to Kurt letting him know exactly where they were.  
  
“He knows I’d punch him in his pretty face if he even thought of taking Miranda on the subway.” Santana says flatly and takes a long drink of her coffee. “Besides, I think I see his pompadour heading this way.”  
  
“Great.” Rachel is already on her feet and wriggling into the crowd before Santana can even think to put down her coffee (so warm) or stand up ( _so comfy_ ). Regardless, Rachel re-emerges a minute later with Miranda on her hip and Kurt bouncing behind her, talking a mile a minute.  
  
Miranda looks miserable, bleary eyed and grumpy with her brown hair side-swept and clipped with a red bow. Her head dips onto Rachel’s shoulder and she yawns. Kurt is still babbling on and Santana catches, “-and they’re thinking that she might need an agent because she’s a natural.”  
  
“Huh?” Santana takes Rachel’s purse out of her chair and, with a grateful glance, Rachel sits down gently and shifts Miranda so she’s sitting on her lap, her head still in place on Rachel’s shoulder.  
  
“Oh, Santana. Hi,” Kurt practically prances around the coffee table to Santana’s chair and bends, air kissing by her cheek before he perches on her arm rest. “The photographer said that Miranda is such a charming baby, and that we should think about getting her an agent before she gets older. That way she can get good representation. Maybe go on Broadway in a few years.”  
  
“Really?” Both of them say it together, Santana looks more baffled while Rachel looks intrigued. But then Miranda wriggles, whines, and babbles, something-something-mommy. Rachel shushes her softly, patting her back until she stops moving restlessly. Rachel looks at Santana like she wants to say something and Santana just pinches her lips and looks back at Kurt.  
  
“You know, Hummel," Santana starts, trying to be gentle, "we've actually been thinking of pulling back on the photo shoots. For a little bit. She's been working pretty hard lately.”

"And you know we love that people love her it's just..." Rachel looks helplessly at her cranky, restless baby and sighs.

  
“Oh.” Kurt waves his hand to stop Rachel, "of course." He says with a little smile, looking at the back of Miranda’s head with a fond expression that would usually make Santana want to punch him. Except, she finds the same look on her face all the time these days, so she’s hardly one to talk. _Or_ punch. “I was thinking now’s a good time for a break, anyway. I hear babies are out for Spring.” He grins, Santana rethinks the punching thing, but then he's checking his watch and flapping his hands as he hops off of Santana's armrest. “Look at the time! I have to be back at the office in twenty. _So_ sorry to drop her and run but-”  
  
“It’s fine, Hummel, go to work before you get fired and ruin daughter’s career.”  
  
“Right.” Kurt rolls his eyes and blows a kiss at Rachel before he gracefully disappears into the crowd, taking all of the energy and excitement with him.  
  
“She looks exhausted,” Rachel sighs when she’s sure he’s left the building. “A 4AM photoshoot was a bad idea.”  
  
“She didn’t seem to think so when she woke us up at three.” Santana scoots her arm chair as close as she can and leans over to stroke the back of Miranda’s head. The baby turns her head with a flash and glares at Santana until she registers who it is. Her eyes brighten just a little and she sits up, body leaning towards Santana's touch.  
  
“ _Maaama_.” She whines and Santana grins, stroking her red stained cheek with her thumb.  
  
“Yeah baby, I know you’re tired. Mommy’s gonna take you home when we finish our coffee, okay?”

Like she understands, Miranda just huffs and rests her head back against Rachel’s chest with a thump. Santana leans back in her chair, taking her coffee with her, and sighs in temporary contentment. She hears Rachel mumbling to Miranda and then there’s shifting in the seat next to her. Rachel is leaning back with her coffee, Miranda nestled against her chest like they’re at home and watching _Yo Gabba Gabba_ on Netflix.

* * *

“I really, really do not want to go.” Rachel sighs and cradles their sleeping one year old as she sits up. They’d gone through two cups of coffee and split coffee cake, but there’s only so much stalling that can be accomplished in a packed Starbucks at 8AM.  
  
“I know, but I need to get on the subway if I want to get to the office by nine.” Santana sighs and starts pulling herself out of the armchair.  
  
“Mmm okay,” Rachel sighs again and slowly stands up, one arm supporting Miranda’s butt while the other cradles her head. It’s a practiced technique developed over months of finding the easiest way to transport her while she’s sleeping (hint, it’s NEVER in the stroller). She accepts a farewell kiss and, since she’s already ready to go, shifts Miranda on her hip and starts nudging her way forward through the line that’s still growing. “Bye Santana! Love you.”  
  
She says it distractedly, calling it back over her shoulder while she tries to avoid getting an elbow to the baby. Santana almost drops her half-empty cup of coffee and spends the next five minutes gathering herself enough to put her scarf and coat back on and head out.

* * *

It’s been over a year since they started being official. Although, “official” is a really dumb technicality because as far as Santana’s concerned, they’ve been together since that stick showed two blue lines - she’s a romantic that way. (Santana would never, ever tell Rachel that, because Rachel really likes that they seemed to dance around each other for months before things finally fell into place. She’s a romantic that way.) Everything from then on has been proof of their ability to be good for each other and for Miranda.  
  
Miranda, who calls her mama (not mommy, that’s Rachel) and hates the ways he plays peek-a-boo. Who still wakes up at night sometimes and is only comforted when Santana sings the refrain from _Cielito Lindo_. Who doesn’t like headbands (clearly not their child, then) but will wear clips and bows until the cows come home. Miranda, who Santana has loved unconditionally from a moment she can’t pinpoint, but was somewhere around the time she saw that first fuzzy peanut shaped blob.  
  
She has never hesitated to tell Miranda she loves her, because she knows she means it. But loving Rachel. _Loving_ Rachel is a whole other beast that Santana hasn’t stopped long enough to think about. Santana is of a mindset that loving another person like she thinks she might love Rachel happens once. A nasty voice inside her head tells her loudly that Brittany was her one chance and she totally blew that.  
  
She hates being hung up on something as stupid as three words. It isn’t hard to put them to the way she feels when she watches Rachel shush Miranda to sleep at naptime, or when Rachel falls asleep with her head on Santana’s shoulder while they’re watching _SVU_ reruns. There’s a desperate nature to the way she thinks she feels about Rachel, a way that wants to claw to the surface and make itself known during quiet times, like when they’re sitting on the fire escape, watching a hazy orange sunset fall over the borough while Kurt plays with Miranda inside.  
  
But then that voice is always there, smashing the feeling down into a small box somewhere inside her heart. She opts for wrapping her arm around Rachel’s back, presses a kiss to her temple, and lets the silence stretch. She feels like it speaks volumes that she can't.

* * *

She stumbles through her morning routines at work - switching the phones over from night to day, rolling messages from the generic mailbox into the attorneys’ individual inboxes - but she barely says a word to anyone until the phone rings at 9.30 and shocks her so badly she bangs her knees on the underside of her desk.  
  
 _For fuck’s sake._  
  
The calls roll in steadily from then on. If she isn’t fielding stupid questions about criminal defense (does _no one_ read the Google ad before they dial?), she’s running faxes back through the office and wishing she hadn’t worn her taller heels. It’s 12.30 when she looks up from a pile of filing in time to see her boss, Mr Vickars, drop a brown bag on her desk.  
  
“Hey!”  
  
“Put the phones on hold for thirty minutes and eat that salad. Oh, and call your girlfriend.”  
  
“What?” Santana feels her whole face turn red and, sure, Mr Vickars knows about Rachel, because she has pictures on her desk, but he’s never said anything about it before.  
  
“You usually call her at lunch,” he shrugs and stuffs his hands into his pockets. “But please, eat. The last girl actually fainted because she was convinced the whole damn place would burn down if she wasn’t glued to the phone or fax machine.” He looks stern for a moment, but then grins and disappears through the door that separates the reception from the rest of the office.  
  
Santana scrambles for the bag and peeks inside. A huge salad with grilled chicken from the no-name deli on the second floor. Santana could cry because there’s a container of ranch dressing along with the standard vinegar and oil container. Santana decides then and there that Mr Vickars is probably the greatest boss she will ever have.  
  
Halfway through the salad she remembers, Rachel, and reaches into the bottom drawer of her desk for her phone.

* * *

“Rachel! I’ve got to get going. Are you going to be okay for the rest of the day?”  
  
“Yeah. Thanks for taking your lunch hour to bring me some baby Tylenol.” Rachel pushes back from the crib where Miranda is finally sleeping. Kurt is lingering in in the kitchen, thumbing the edge of his scarf with this sad look on his face. “Oh Kurt, it’s not your fault she’s sick. Go to work.” She walks at him making shooing motions and he just rolls his eyes.  
  
“Alright, but you text me as soon as she wakes up.”  
  
“Fine, fine.”  
  
Rachel’s phone vibrates across the kitchen table and Kurt kisses the air next to Rachel’s cheek before dashing out of the apartment as Rachel reaches for her phone.  
  
“Hey Sa-”  
  
“You too.”  
  
“Huh?” Rachel blinks, feeling like maybe Santana hadn’t expected her to pick up the phone so fast.  
  
“I love you, too.” Santana’s voice is so soft it takes Rachel a moment to process what she’s saying.  
  
“ _Oh_.” She could’ve sworn there was solid ground under her feet but she feels this floating sensation wash over her suddenly.  
  
“Yeah. I - shit. You meant that, right?”  
  
“Um,” Rachel bites her lip and squeezes her eyes shut. _She is not Finn, she is not Brody, she is not Finn_. “Yes. I did. I mean, I do.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Definitely.” There’s a crunch and crinkle down Santana’s line and Rachel almost laughs because that’s just the opposite of romantic. But she supposes declaring her love in a crowded Starbucks on a whim is probably the opposite of romantic, too. It just solidifies for Rachel that they’re so right for eachother. “I gotta run. Let’s have something nice tonight, like, pizza.”  
  
“Oh,” Rachel snorts and shakes her head, “sure, nice pizza. Oh but, Miranda has a fever, sh- _don’t_ worry Santana, Kurt got her some baby Tylenol and she’s sleeping now. But, pizza is about all I can manage.”  
  
“That’s fine, Rach. I’ll bring something home. But really, lunch is almost over. I’ll see you tonight?”  
  
“Mm. Oh, Santana?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“I love you.”  
  
She hears Santana take a shuddering breath and then exhale in a loud puff against the phone, “I love you too.”


End file.
